


Take the Long Way Home: The Ballad of Romain Bardet

by moorglade



Series: between two mirrors is a life lived in parallel [2]
Category: Cycling RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No COVID, Angst with a Happy Ending, By which I mean various people including our hero fall off their bikes, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Gen, I have only tagged people if they have actual dialogue, Racing, Self-Esteem Issues, Tagged as both gen and ship because you can read it either way, Tour de France, and others abandon due to injury, bike racing, doing the hard work of re-evaluating life goals, most of the usual suspects are there, no one is a rotter except Gianni Moscon and well that's the world we live in, or I will be tagging the entire peloton, take your pick of whether they're close bffs or in a qpr or banging continually offscreen, whatever you see their relationship as, whilst riding 3000 km round France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25530697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moorglade/pseuds/moorglade
Summary: The real yellow jersey is the friends we made along the way... butisit though?Set in an alternate universe where COVID never happened and the 2020 season ran as expected, Romain Bardet goes into the Tour de France expecting yet another disappointing disaster of a race.  He knows he'll never be good enough to beat Ineos, and that AG2R will never agree to let him structure his season differently.Nothing goes according to plan.(Disclaimer: Absolutely nothing in this story actually happened, and should not be taken as a reflection on all of these very real people.  Mostly written in 2019, so anything which I have successfully predicted about the real 2020 Tour is just a coincidence.)
Relationships: Romain Bardet & Warren Barguil, Romain Bardet/Warren Barguil
Series: between two mirrors is a life lived in parallel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806787
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Stages 1-8: in which the stage is set

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to whoever wrote that one Bardet/Barguil story back in 2017. It's since been deleted, and not all the wonders of the Wayback Machine seem to be able to re-conjure it back out of the ether. I hope you see this. They're my favourites too.

_“I don’t remember when I was ever really happy,” he says. “I always saw what was wrong. But I’m a bad loser, a born competitor; that’s why, when I was younger, sometimes when I felt I haven’t done my maximum, perhaps I’d be upset.”_

_Satisfaction is the enemy of ambition. “I’m really afraid that the day I can congratulate myself, maybe I’ll make less effort all year round,” Bardet says._

_This is either the mentality of a misery guts or a champion in waiting._ * 

\-----

As always, it started before the Tour even began. Romain didn't need to be told what his main goal for the season was, even as he didn't need to tell anyone that he wouldn't be able to achieve it. 

He deflected as many questions from the press as he could, but he couldn't entirely hide his frustration. It was impossible for him to snap and show any anger, so he pushed it down and became more silent. Romain said all the conventional things without ever really listening to the words coming out of his mouth, and a magazine published an article with a photo of him staring off into the distance, and claimed he was dreaming of yellow. 

The rest of the team thought it was _hilarious_. Romain knew he wasn't improving his popularity, but he couldn't even pretend to find it funny. He was too afraid that his best days were long behind him, and that the road ahead led only to irrelevance. 

When they finally lined up on the start line for stage 1, there were photographers everywhere. Romain looked across at Egan Bernal, only 23 and already a Grand Tour winner, and all he could feel was panic fluttering in his throat. Behind Bernal on one side were Chris Froome and Geraint Thomas, and on the other Tadej Pogačar and Remco Evenepoel. Evenepoel was 20. Romain fiddled with his sunglasses for what felt like an eternity, so that he wouldn't have to wave and smile. 

_

(Saturday 27th June 2020)

Stage 1 was the sort of boring flat stage the sprinters claimed for their own. Romain gritted his teeth and endured, and made sure he never dropped beyond the front 50 right until the 3km to go mark. He felt like he was waiting for the first shoe to drop.

There wasn't any kind of excitement. The break was caught with a conventional 10km to go, and Dylan Groenewegen won the sprint to take the first yellow jersey. Romain finished 7s back with the main bunch, and tried unsuccessfully not to be jealous.

_ 

(Sunday 28th June 2020) 

Stage 2 was lumpier, but no less boring. Romain rolled along without his head in the game, and was caught out when a touch of wheels split the peloton in two. He'd deliberately let himself slip away from his teammates, unable to face hour after hour of inane chatter, and Romain knew he had no-one but himself to blame. 

His presence in the second group was an utter irrelevance. The front half of the peloton didn't even bother trying to get away, and the junction was made a mere four minutes later. Romain worked his way back up to the front, and discovered no one had yet realised he was missing. He tucked in at the back of the team, and finished with the main bunch, 12s behind Arnaud Démare, who took both the stage win and the jersey. 

The media went almost as crazy as they had for Julian Alaphilippe in 2019. Romain felt sick with jealousy, and hated himself for it. 

_

(Monday 29th June 2020) 

Stage 3 had two categorised climbs, and several steepish ramps which ought to have been, but weren't. The finish had two sharp left-handers, followed by a cobbled drag up to the line. Romain could already sense that someone's collarbone wouldn't make it through the day intact, and he was grimly determined that it wouldn't be his. 

He got on the back of the Ineos train, and spent five hours watching Froome stare down at his stem. Romain wondered what he was looking at, and what it was that Froome had got that he hadn't. Better legs, of course. The ability to time trial. But over and above that Romain knew in his heart that there was something Ineos ingrained into all their winners, something that he himself lacked. It felt as though he was literally riding in Froome's shadow. 

But it was a good place to be, as the break was caught too early at 25km to go, and a flurry of late attacks caused chaos. Nairo Quintana went off the front halfway down a descent, to be joined almost instantly by Stefan Küng. They were caught and then passed by Evenepoel, hotly pursued by Alejandro Valverde and two Cofidis riders Romain couldn't identify. 

Romain just wanted it all to be over. Despite the continual attacks, Ineos just sat on the front and regulated the pace as precisely as any sprinter's team. One by one everyone was caught, and the peloton was together as they swept round the final corner. 

Just as Romain expected, there was a crash. He didn't see who caused it or who was down, too busy trying not to crash into the back of Froome. Everyone was delayed by a few minutes, as they shuffled through the pinch point caused by the medical team. Romain found out later that Alexander Kristoff was the unfortunate soul departing with his collarbone in pieces, and wished there wasn't part of him that envied Kristoff such a reasonable excuse for abandoning. 

Ahead of the crash, Caleb Ewan took the win, but Démare held onto the jersey by 1s. It all seemed so very irrelevant to Romain. 

_

(Tuesday 30th June 2020) 

Stage 4 started inland, but ran along exposed coastal roads for over 100km. Echelons were almost guaranteed, and the initial pace was brutal. Multiple attempts to establish a breakaway went nowhere, and after an hour everyone was as frustrated as they were exhausted. When the break finally went, it was only due to someone not being able to hold the wheel in front. 

Romain felt his heart rate shoot through the roof as soon as he saw the gap forming. He knew exactly what would be said, both to him and about him, if he lost a minute or two on an irrelevant flat stage. Choking down the panic he began sprinting, desperate to make the back of the break. For an eternity he was caught in the middle, neither in one group or another, but he finally made Thomas de Gendt's wheel just as they emerged into the wind. 

For a minute or two Romain was too relieved to care whether he'd made a good move or not, but as he slotted into his place in the swiftly-forming echelon, his heart sank. Apart from him and de Gendt it was composed mainly of Ineos, plus Valverde, who even at 40 retained his ability to be in the right place at the right time. There was no way it would be allowed to escape, and Romain knew he should've sat in the bunch and not wasted energy. He pulled his radio out of his ear, to claim later he couldn't hear anything over the wind. 

Jumbo Visma instantly began the chase, with help from just about every other GC team. Romain stared at nothing, and rolled through his turns, and within 20 minutes they were caught, and he slunk back into line. 

De Gendt and Valverde had other ideas, and as the catch was made, both took off up the road. As the kilometres ticked by Romain wondered numbly if he was the only one with any sense of the inevitable. It came as no surprise to him when De Gendt took the stage win, Valverde coming in 10s behind to take yellow, with a 45s lead over everyone else. Romain didn't have answers for any of the awkward questions at the dinner table that night, and took himself off to bed as soon as he could. 

_

(Wednesday 1st July 2020) 

Stage 5 was the TTT, the first day Romain had been dreading. AG2R started off relatively early, but Romain knew it would make no difference had they gone last. He gritted his teeth, and tried to force his body into as aero a position as possible. Romain knew quite well that the rest of the team were waiting for him, and resenting him for it, and he hated that he had to be grateful to them for doing it. 

They still finished down in 12th place. Jumbo Visma took the win, and Tom Dumoulin went into yellow, with Primož Roglič and Steven Kruijswijk immediately behind him. Romain had a deficit of 1m38s, and it was only stage 5. He went to bed as early as he could, and shut his eyes so his room mate, Mathias Frank, wouldn't even attempt to talk to him. It took him a long time to fall asleep. 

_

(Thursday 2nd July 2020) 

Stage 6 was another pointless flat stage. When the break was forming, Romain couldn't quite rid himself of the thought of somehow getting into it unnoticed. He knew quite well that even if he succeeded, even if he could somehow make up all 1m38s, he'd still be starting the ITT at a disadvantage. 

He wasn't entirely sure whether it would be worse to know that his presence would condemn an already doomed breakaway, or that it _wouldn't_. He watched the break disappear up the road, and settled in for a long hard day of regretting his lack of courage to even try. 

The catch was made with 11km to go, and the sprint won by Elia Viviani. The most exciting thing that happened to Romain all day was a banana in his musette. 

_

(Friday 3rd July 2020) 

Stage 7 was the first real mountain stage, with barely 2km of false flat before the road turned upwards. Romain expected things to stay together until the third and last climb of the day, and he'd secretly marked it down for an attack on the final descent since he first saw the stage profile. 

Alaphilippe had other ideas, and took off up the first climb like a man possessed. Numerous people tried to follow, but as Alaphilippe accelerated away, only Bernal was able to stay with him. And Romain was too far back, too out of position, and all his hopes were disappearing up the road without him. 

It didn't occur to him that his pitiful 19th place on GC was under no threat from either Bernal or Alaphilippe, who were respectively 2m43s and 1m21s ahead of him. All he could think of was that this was one of the stages he'd targeted, and that if he couldn't make a difference here, he was truly lost. 

Chasers were slipping off the front in ones and twos, and the race had splintered into pieces with barely 8km ridden. Romain found himself in a group with Rafał Majka and Alessandro de Marchi, who'd apparently been trying to get into a breakaway. They worked well together, but couldn't close the gap to the next group ahead, consisting of Nairo Quintana, Jakob Fuglsang, and two Astana domestiques. 

Romain's world narrowed down to the gradient. He had no idea of what was happening either in front or behind, unaware that Bernal, calm and perfectly collected, was sitting on Alaphilippe's wheel and letting him do all the work. He only found out later that Dumoulin was being desperately paced back to the remnants of the peloton after a mechanical. And his first inkling that the race had kicked off behind was when he glanced over his shoulder straight into the face of Vincenzo Nibali. 

His heart sank as Nibali took one, two, three breaths of respite, and powered on. Romain poured everything he had into holding Nibali's wheel, and he was, until Nibali flicked his elbow. Romain hit the front, but as soon as he was in the wind he felt their speed dropping. Nibali gave him a cool, assessing glance and accelerated away, de Marchi still somehow managing to follow. 

By the time Romain hit the top of the climb, he was lost in his own head, drowning in recriminations. The spectators grouped beneath the arch cheered wildly as soon as they realised who he was, and Romain felt a wave of loathing sweep right down to his toes. He took every risk he could on the descent, and by the time he was into the valley he'd caught Fuglsang, Hugo Houle and Alaphilippe. 

The second ascent was harder than the first. Romain was forcing himself to climb mountains every day, and it would be easy, so easy, to just climb off. Every time he looked downwards, the GC group were a little closer. 

The third climb was nightmarish. Romain was swept up by the Jumbo-Visma train, and all the way to the summit he was sprinting, out of the saddle, never quite able to hold the wheel in front. Normally Romain loved descending, but when they finally reached the downhill slope he was utterly spent, and there was no joy left in him. The best he could manage was to hold his place, and he lost five seconds on the line. 

Bernal took both the stage win and the yellow jersey, and de Marchi the polka dots. Romain was 2m43s behind Bernal. He'd given everything he had, and gained nothing. He couldn't look anyone in the eye that night. 

_

(Saturday 4th July 2020) 

Stage 8 was one of those cursed stages where nothing went right for anyone. There was a crash in the neutralised section, and before the race proper had even begun, Luke Rowe and Mark Soler were in a heap on the ground, to abandon shortly afterwards. 

Romain was already twitchy, as was everyone else. The flag drop was late, and when it finally came there was a moment of hesitation, as no one really wanted to tempt fate by getting in the breakaway. A few brave souls finally chanced it, but it was all for nothing when a farmers' protest halted the race 15km in. 

By the time the race restarted it was raining, and a few minutes later Fabio Aru abandoned with a knee injury. There were three separate crashes on the one and only descent of the day, and each of them was nasty. Romain wasn't the only one continually checking his speed. 

The effort of being continuously keyed-up for disaster began to weigh on everyone's nerves. Bauke Mollema of all people got into a shouting match with Kruijswijk over the Jumbo-Visma train's tactics, or lack of them. Romain hung onto the back of the GC group for dear life, ignoring everything around him except the wheel in front. 

The rain had been a steady drizzle all day, but as they began the final climb, it got heavier and heavier until it was pouring. Romain was soaked to the skin within moments, and wished futilely for his rain jacket, left in the team car to save weight on the climb. 

He didn't realise just how badly he'd miscalculated until he had a mechanical. The team car was stuck halfway down the mountain, and he was forced to take a wheel from the neutral service bike. It was the slowest change Romain had ever seen, done so poorly he was eventually given a new bike, and by the time he was pushed off, he was shivering. 

Romain recognised what was happening to him, of course. He choked down four gels and a rice cake, but the energy didn't reach his legs. 

Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself up the road. Romain wasn't sure why he didn't just climb off, unless it was that after all the team had invested in him, perhaps he didn't deserve to take the easy way out. It was bad enough being passed by dropped domestiques, but he dreaded looking over and seeing the gruppetto. 

Metre by metre, Romain wove back and forth across the road, and he climbed the mountain. At some point he dimly became aware that he was following someone else's wheel, but it was too much effort to work out whose. 

As they climbed the rain turned to sleet, and then to snow. Romain didn't notice. He just kept turning the pedals and following the wheel, and then at last someone caught his bike, and he was led away to where it was warm. 

He didn't look at how much time he'd conceded. He didn't have to; he knew everything he needed when their DS congratulated Pierre Latour at dinner on the victory Romain had been too busy having hypothermia to notice he'd won. 

Romain stared down at his plate, and shivered, and wondered if he were sick. It would be so much easier if only he were. 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This _is_ a real quote, from [this interview](https://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:fp_BCElKnrAJ:https://journal.rouleur.cc/romain-bardet-interview/+&cd=3&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=uk) (cached as the original seems to no longer be available). Nothing else is.


	2. Rest Day, Stages 9 - 10: in which Romain copes with cobbles, struggles with the rest day, and decides he is the best teammate

(Sunday 5th July 2020) 

At the morning team briefing, their DS emphasised that they'd all be riding to support Pierre's 8th place on GC. He expected maximum efforts, especially on the cobbles, and one or more of them were to make it into the break, ready to drop back if needed. 

He looked straight at Romain as he said it, although he was spared the humiliation of hearing it said out loud in front of everyone else. Romain knew it was a punishment, and he knew he deserved it. Not for not having the legs, no, that could have happened to anyone, but for bonking on the last climb like the rawest of neo-pros. He was only grateful that he hadn't been sentenced to ride on the front on the flat, for the entire peloton to see how the team hierarchy had changed. 

When the flag finally dropped it was filthy weather; raining in the valley as it was snowing on the heights. Pierre kept trying to speak to Romain, but he edged away through the bunch, until he was almost riding into the back of the red car. Pierre was going to be so kind, and so apologetic, and that was the one thing Romain couldn't handle. 

He'd got his orders for the day, and Romain was determined to prove that at the least he could do this, that he could be a good teammate. There was a part of him that was desperate to make a stand and refuse, but if it came right down to it, he needed AG2R more than they needed him. He'd spent 8 years there, and what other team would take him, with his current form? 

Romain pushed down the panic at the thought of all the Continental and ProTeams that would take a top 20 at the Tour in a heartbeat, and watched the flag. The second it dropped he hurtled forwards, sprinting towards an ever-receding finish line. For a sickening, heart-stopping moment he thought that no one was coming with him, and that he was going to dangle out front all day, alone, to be caught at the peloton's pleasure and spat out the back. 

But as the road twisted and turned, snaking downhill towards the first section of cobbles, something entirely unexpected happened. For the first time since he'd lined up on the start line of Stage 1, Romain's heart lifted, and began to sing within him. He was leading the whole race, at the very apex of it, speeding down into the valley on the wings of the storm. To his left and right he was dimly aware of other riders, but he alone was at the very point, the tip of the arrowhead. And for the first time since Stage 1, he forgot his fears and began to race. 

There were 14 cobbled sections, with the last ending barely 3km from the finish line. Romain hadn't exactly had the best of experience with cobbles and the Tour, but he was too focused on the race in front of him to worry about the past. He tucked in behind Greg van Avermaet, and watched what lines he took. 

It was muddy, and it was cold, and it was wet. But Romain rode like he hadn't all Tour, taking his turns on the front and putting out every watt he could to help keep their group out in front. He wasn't thinking about making up his 6m14s deficit. He wasn't even thinking about winning the stage, surrounded by too many more experienced classics riders to believe that was a possibility. 

He pulled his radio out, and ignored the time gap board, and just concentrated on the race he was in, rather than the race he wished it were. And as they reached 2km to go, Romain realised he was in a very select group indeed. Besides him were Peter Sagan, Tim Wellens, van Avermaet, Mollema and Alaphilippe. He glanced over his shoulder, and although there were a few chasers, there was no sign of the peloton. 

Romain knew he had no chance of winning a sprint against the company he was in. So he did the only thing he could, and attacked. It didn't work, and he was caught with 400m to go, finishing in 6th. But it was the first stage where he hadn't been ashamed of his performance. 

That feeling lasted until he made it back to the team bus, only to discover that Tony Gallopin had abandoned with a fractured wrist, and that Pierre had been delayed by two mechanicals. Romain thought guiltily of his ignored radio, and all his pride in his achievement died. He was still in disgrace, still a terrible teammate. He wanted to protest that he hadn't been being selfish, that he'd been trying to get a win for the team, but he knew no one wanted to hear. 

Romain went to bed as early as he could, and wondered why they all chose to hurt themselves over and over each day, and if there was anyone for whom that sacrifice would be worth making. He was guiltily glad that at least it was no longer for him; he knew he wasn't worth all that suffering. 

_ 

(Monday 6th July 2020) 

Romain wasn't asked to speak at the team’s rest day press conference. What could he possibly have to say? No one was interested in his failures. 

When he’d checked his phone in the morning, he’d had a whole screen’s worth of messages from various friends. And he hadn’t been able to face looking at a single one, sure as he was that they’d all be full of encouraging advice, telling him that he’d pick himself up from this setback and soon be back to winning ways. And he couldn’t read that, not even from the people who cared about him, because he knew it for the well-meaning lie it was. 

All he’d really wanted to do was to hide away from everyone and everything, but of course that wasn’t something he could do. After breakfast, while Pierre went to the press conference, Romain was sent out with the rest of the team on a training ride. He put his headphones in and his sunglasses on, but as soon as they made it outside there were fans everywhere, demanding autographs and selfies. 

All he wanted to do was to go back into the hotel and fall asleep until he had to race again. But media obligations were a part of his contract, even when he knew his signature was of no value to anyone, and he had to smile and pretend to be happy. And then at last he could ride away, but he knew at once that neither his legs nor his head were really there. 

Not one of his teammates said anything, and Romain couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse than an open acknowledgement of the disappointment and irritation they must have been feeling. He’d almost have welcomed a row, so that at least he could have had an excuse to vent his emotions. But instead he was continually at the back of the group, not deliberately excluded, but having to work a little harder to keep up than was ever comfortable. 

Back at the hotel he stood under the shower, letting the lukewarm water cascade down over him, and although he wasn’t much given to daydreaming, suddenly he wished with all his heart that the race were over and that he was back home. If only he could open the shower door and see, instead of an anonymous hotel room, his own familiar bathroom. If only, instead of the teammates he’d let down so badly, he could see and talk to Warren. 

But at heart Romain was a realist, and he knew his performance had been so bad that he didn’t deserve any comforting. He wrapped a towel round his hips and lay down on his bed in complete defiance of his allotted schedule, and wondered whether anyone would really miss him at dinner. But before he could get too lost in dismal thoughts, his phone rang. 

Romain didn’t want to talk to anyone, but the last thing he needed was to be reported to doping control for not being where he should be, so with a groan he reached out and grabbed it. 

“What _happened_ , man?” said a cheerful voice. “You absolutely died on that climb – what’s the story?" 

Romain sagged back on his bed in relief. There were only two people in the world who wouldn’t sugar-coat just how awful his performance had been, and there was no way he could talk to Warren in the middle of a race. But Mika Cherel, his best friend, was the other. 

“I’ve been bad all race,” Romain began, and before he knew it he’d worked his way back to stage 1, back through the whole long chain of failures. 

“Huh,” Mika said thoughtfully. “Sounds like the best thing you can do is just get to Paris as quickly as possible.” 

“If I could take the direct route, I’d be there tomorrow,” Romain said dryly. “I thought I was better than this – ” 

“Everyone has their off days,” Mika countered. 

“But I have one _every time_ the Tour rolls around,” Romain sighed. “I always manage to screw it up somehow – ” 

“If they’d just let you do the Giro like you wanted, maybe you wouldn’t have done,” Mika said, and Romain appreciated the irritation in his voice. But he knew it was the price of being a French GC rider on a French team, even one as disappointing as he knew himself to be. 

“They’re never going to let me skip the Tour,” Romain said gloomily. “Even if I broke my leg – wait, hang on, I’m coming – ” 

“Dinner?” said Mathias Frank, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, I was in the shower,” Romain said, indicating the towel. “Hang on and I’ll be down.” He shut the door, then picked his phone up again. “Mika? Got to go – they’ve sent Mathias to drag me down to dinner.” 

“Go and eat, then,” Mika said cheerfully. “Stop beating yourself up, and don’t forget to keep pedalling forward. I’ll catch up with you properly after you get to Paris.” 

Romain threw some clothes on, and then went down to dinner, and he tried to keep from letting his dissatisfaction show on his face. But his thoughts kept flying out of the window into the night, and it still seemed a very long, long way to Paris. 

_ 

(Tuesday 7th July 2020) 

Stage 10 had breakaway written all over it, and as soon as the flag dropped about half the peloton started trying to get into it. Not Romain; he'd been explicitly forbidden to even try. He sat in his place at the very front of the team line, not even next to Pierre, and watched as one by one others flew up the road. 

It ought to have been Trek policing the break, but Ineos were sat on the front just as if Bernal were still in yellow. Romain supposed they didn't consider Mollema and Alaphilippe true opponents. He wondered just who in the peloton they would actually treat as a threat. 

The break formed at last, and after blocking the road for a few minutes, Ineos gave way to Trek. It was a long lumpy transfer stage, with a single Cat 2 climb 25km from the finish, and everyone settled down for a long and boring day. 

But Romain couldn't settle. He was still thinking about Stage 8, and it went round and round in circles in his mind. The climb, the rain, the wheel change. The rain, the snow, the climb. It was only when he'd ridden 45km entirely sunk in his own despair that a thought occurred to him: where the _hell_ had the rest of the team been? 

Romain was honest enough with himself to admit that his 19th place on GC, at 2m43s behind, hadn't been worth defending. Certainly it didn't compare to Pierre's 8th place at 1m1s, although without losing any time he'd still dropped back to 11th. But Romain was, or had been at any rate, the team leader. Surely he'd merited at least _one_ teammate sent back to help him? The series of images flickered across his mind again, and he tried to picture whose wheel he'd been following. A red jersey, he was almost sure. Certainly not brown shorts. 

But someone who'd kept their pace slow for him, someone who'd kept checking over their shoulder to make sure he was following. And certainly not one of his teammates. 

The cloud of despair lifted a little. Romain wasn't cold and hopeless, he was hot and furious and determined to do _something_. At first he thought of just speeding up the road in defiance of team orders. But the break was 5m28s ahead, and there was no way he could close that gap alone. He wasn't ready to try, and fail, only to be slowly hauled back in again by the peloton. 

He couldn't go alone, so Romain would take the team with him. He didn't have the power on the flat to sit in the wind and drag them for the remaining 160km. But it wasn't a flat stage, it was continually rolling up and down, and there was the climb. Besides, what did he have to lose? He'd already blown his chance at the top 10, barely hanging on within the top 20, and he'd lost the respect of his team. 

So fuelled more by anger than by common sense, Romain lifted the pace just a little. There was always an ebb and flow in the peloton, and gradually, gradually he moved the team up towards the front. He hadn't really got a clear plan of what he was going to do when he got there, but he was determined that somehow he'd show everyone that he wasn't to be written off. 

When he reached the front, he was surprised to see all the sprinters' teams up there, before he realised they were coming up on the intermediate sprint. Romain didn't care. He shouldered his way through until he was right at the very front, between the Bora and Jumbo-Visma leadout trains. 

Romain got more than a few curious glances, and Démare shouted over to ask if he'd decided to go in for sprinting. He rolled his eyes and didn't answer, but still Romain felt poised for action, like a coiled spring. He was just waiting for the right moment to unwind. 

With the 1km to go mark in sight, Démare and the others drifted off the front. The peloton were just rolling through, giving the sprinters their space. Romain glanced from side to side, careful not to seem too eager. No one was paying any attention to him except Tony Martin. He looked right at Romain, and then he winked. 

Romain surged forward, out of the saddle, almost as though he were going for the sprint himself, and hoped to goodness that whoever was behind him was alert and able to stay on his wheel. He was almost within a bike's length of Sagan when the real sprint started. Ignoring everything up front, Romain risked a look over his shoulder. On his wheel were the whole team including Pierre, an assortment of bewildered but game lead-out men, and Jumbo-Visma. 

There was a 30m gap back to the peloton. Romain didn't waste time waiting to see who would try to close it. He just kept riding flat out, and thought that if Jumbo-Visma would ride with them, there might really be a chance. Not for him, but for Pierre, and he felt like a good and worthy teammate. 

He rode at his absolute maximum for four minutes, and then just as he felt his power falling off, Jumbo-Visma took over. Romain allowed himself to be dropped, and the last he saw of the whole group was them powering off into the distance. 

He was caught relatively quickly by the rest of the peloton, but Romain could tell at once that the chase wasn't properly organised. It ought to have been – Dumoulin and Roglič up the road was a terrifying prospect for almost everyone – but Ineos had been caught too far back, and the chase was stuttering and uncertain. Romain tucked away out of the wind, and knew he'd done all that he could. 

The group up the road worked too well together to be caught, and Roglič went into yellow. At dinner that night their DS praised the whole team for being so quick to follow Jumbo-Visma's move, and to help Pierre move up to 5th. Romain didn't admit that he was the original instigator of the move; he hugged that secret close to himself, and felt like the best teammate ever. 

_ 


	3. Stages 11 - 12: in which Romain decides he is the worst teammate, misses some good advice, and a crash leads to an unexpected opportunity

(Wednesday 8th July 2020) 

Romain went to bed feeling so proud of himself, with the secret underlying thought that now that he'd demonstrated that he really _was_ a good teammate after all, the universe would reward him. Somehow he'd make up all of his deficit and become team leader again, and be up there competing for the podium and... well, he was aware of how ridiculous it sounded put into words. But he didn't articulate it to himself until much later on, just lay down on his bed still shining with achievement, feeling that he'd fulfilled his part of the cosmic bargain 

But then a cold, unwelcome thought wormed insidiously into his brain: _what if he was so happy because at heart he was meant to be a domestique?_

Domestiques were the foundation the whole sport was built on. Anyone could win a Grand Tour; the secret lay in _not losing_. No one won by themselves, and there was as much if not more honour in riding in support of a team as there was in leading it. Romain knew all these things, and knew they were true. He'd never considered himself above the rest of the team, putting himself on a pedestal he wasn't entitled to. He'd never considered his teammates somehow lesser. He'd ridden for other people before, and he would do again. 

Or so he'd always thought he believed. But apparently he'd been lying to himself all along, because just the thought of it made panic flutter in his throat, and his hands go cold, and his chest feel tight. He told himself all the rational, logical things, but the fear he couldn't push away was blind and unreasoning. Romain couldn't become a domestique because he _couldn't do that_. He'd never thought of himself as particularly proud, particularly selfish, but apparently he was, because he found himself wondering if he'd walk away from his sport entirely than take a step back, a step down, to become someone's devoted helper, there to sacrifice himself for whatever the team needed. 

Romain lay on his bed as still as he could manage, cold and miserable, his heart beating out _domestique, domestique, domestique_. The team had no way to ensure he slept, but his Fitbit would report any deviations from his usual routine, and Romain knew there would be yet more questions he couldn't answer. He wasn't injured, he'd had no bad news from home, and he wasn't in any position to be worrying about his own chances in the race. He was just tied up in knots inside his own head again, and that was something no one could fix, neither him nor the team. 

At last he fell asleep, and he dreamed of the snow, and the climb, and only a wheel to follow onward, when all around him the world was crumbling to dust. 

When he made it to the start line for stage 11, he was sandy-eyed and surly. It was a medium mountain stage with a long flat run to the finish, and little to trouble Pierre, so Romain's instructions for the day were to pace him up the second climb, and then stay with the group if he could. Romain hated that the default assumption seemed to be that he would be dropped. 

The break went early, composed of unsuccessful teams looking for TV time, Thomas de Gendt for the usual reasons, and de Marchi trying to amass mountains points before the high mountains and the inevitable GC battles. Romain sat in the bunch and waited for the second climb. 

When they reached the foot of it, the pace lifted immediately, despite it being neither a particularly long nor hard climb. Within five kilometres it was almost down to GC contenders only, and then there was a sudden acceleration at the front. Pierre was towards the back, and within seconds there was a perceptible gap in the group. 

Romain didn't know who'd attacked, but he knew what his orders were, and he was sick to death of continually being caught out and continually closing gaps. But he went to the front and began to work, trading turns with Tejay van Garderen, who was working for Rigoberto Urán. Romain rode as hard as he could, trying to concentrate on the race situation rather than his muddled, swirling emotions, and yet the gap didn't get any smaller. Eventually Pierre realised that he'd have to make the junction himself, and calling out something hopeful, he and Urán took off. 

Apparently the default assumption had been correct after all. Romain dropped down to a more sustainable pace, hating that he had to do so. By the time they'd finally crossed the summit and swooped down the descent, the GC group was out of sight, and there was no one in view behind, not even a TV motorbike. Romain sighed, and resigned himself to a day spent in the company of van Garderen, but he couldn't turn his thoughts away from his own problems. 

“I'm not exactly a domestique, man,” van Garderen said, when he broached the subject. “More of a superdom, if you're gonna put it like that. I kinda think of myself as more of a mentor these days.” 

Romain rolled his eyes. That didn't answer his question, and it certainly didn't _help_ him in any way. 

“You ride for Urán,” he said, wondering if he wasn't clear enough in English. He hated that he was even in a position where he would rather have this awkward conversation than ride with his own thoughts. “You're not the team leader – ” 

“Sure I'm not,” van Garderen said amiably. “Not here, anyhow, but I get team leadership at races Rigo doesn't do. Cycling's not my whole life, man, you know?” 

Romain did not. He'd got friends and family, of course. He'd got hobbies. He was a well-rounded person. But everything, _everything_ else had taken second place to his career. For a moment he decided he was simply more dedicated than van Garderen, but with a flush of shame that reached down to his toes he acknowledged that even if that were true, it hadn't done him any good. “You don't want to be leader?” he asked, wishing he could say what he really meant: _they said you'd be somebody one day, and how do you live with the fact that you're not?_

There was a pause, while they navigated a small village full of cheering crowds, and then van Garderen pulled back alongside. “I started pretty young, you know,” he said. “When you're a kid you believe you can do anything. But I've got a wife and daughters; I've got a life. I'd rather be a big fish in a small pond, because we both know I'm never going to be a Froome. Why put myself under that pressure? But with some of these kids we've got joining the team now, I can teach them...” 

Apparently he was content with his lot. Romain didn't mean to tune him out, but he did, and he rode to the finish entirely ignorant of whatever pearls of wisdom van Garderen was so keen to pass on to his younger teammates. Once they'd crossed the line, he patted Romain cheerfully on the shoulder. “Good chat, man,” he said, and headed off for the EF bus. 

Romain didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He settled on neither, because TV cameras were everywhere, and went to his own team bus. Pierre was hugging everyone, congratulating them on a job well done. Romain wondered if he'd done that enough in the past; if he'd made it sound sincere, if he'd even meant it to be. Apparently the stage was a success all round, with no changes up front and Pierre still in a solid fifth. Romain was as lost and confused as ever, but at least he was over the half way mark. Even the Tour had to eventually come to an end. 

_ 

(Thursday 9th July 2020) 

Stage 12 started with the announcement that Geraint Thomas had abandoned overnight. Romain supposed that was good news. True, Thomas was even further back on GC than he was himself, but that was one key component of the Sky train that Pierre didn't have to worry about. Of course, Jumbo-Visma might now be a bigger threat, and Romain remembered guiltily that he was the one who'd started the move which had put them in that position. 

It was a mostly flat day; another one for the sprinters. Nonetheless a sizeable breakaway went, although their time gap was firmly pegged at no more than three minutes. There was no need for Romain to do anything more than sit in the wheels, but he couldn't entirely switch off, as a faint nagging voice at the back of his mind insisted that the second he did some disaster would occur. 

He wasn't the only one who was on edge. As he drifted back to the team car for water, determined to offer some rather more practical assistance than van Garderen's mentorship, Romain saw plenty of people checking their shoes and adjusting their gears, as though everyone were sensing danger in the air. 

He loaded up on bidons from the car, taking the opportunity to ask his DS if race radio had reported any potential incidents. It was an awkward conversation, as things hadn't been right between them since Pierre had become team leader. His DS was clearly expecting Romain to throw a tantrum, and Romain was torn between doing just that and attempting to prove that he was in fact the adult in the room. Apparently there was nothing unusual reported. Romain took the water and began to make his way back up to the front. 

He'd not even made it out of the convoy of cars when he saw the back of the peloton freewheeling to a halt. Rolling up to the back he asked what had happened, but no one seemed to know. At last word filtered through, and Romain shuddered at the knowledge that the danger had been real. 

Apparently a TV motorbike had taken a corner too swiftly, and crashed into an empty camper van parked beside the road. The bike had spun out into the path of the oncoming riders, and there'd been a massive pile-up at the front of the race. Romain felt sick. Every year, every month, there were more accidents caused by race infrastructure, and yet rider safety was never made more of a priority. 

For at least half an hour nothing happened, or nothing perceptible from the back, and everyone shuffled about with varying degrees of impatience. Romain tried several times to push his way up to the front, but there were just too many riders and too many spectators. He assumed the medical cars had made it to the crash, or possibly an ambulance had been called, but either way no one seemed to know who had been hurt. The few rumours that made it through seemed to Romain so inconsistent that he did his best to disregard them, although he couldn't stop his mind from jumping to the worst-case scenario. 

At last there was a wave of movement ahead, and the race restarted. The pace seemed oddly slow to Romain, but as soon as possible he began working his way forward. Pierre and the team were about seventy riders ahead, all entirely unharmed, and they had in fact been worrying about him. 

Romain was oddly touched by that. Things hadn't been right for him since Stage 1 – since long before Stage 1, if he were honest – but Pierre and the others weren't to blame for either team strategy or for all the doubts and fears weighing him down. He handed over the bidons, and felt lighter by more than just a few kilograms of water. 

Pierre confirmed what had happened with the motorbike, and explained that as a protest Ineos, Jumbo-Visma and Deceuninck-Quickstep had decided to neutralise the stage. Romain nodded, accepting and approving of the reason for the slow pace. And if there were no racing today, he didn't have to think of his team obligations. He offered Pierre a smile which felt more genuine than anything had for days, and slipped away. 

As Romain continued forward, looking for Arkéa-Samsic, he saw ripped jerseys and shorts everywhere. Quickstep were riding at the very front, pacing the neutralised procession, and almost all of them were bleeding. It wasn't an unusual sight, but the sheer number of injuries sickened and infuriated Romain, and he still couldn't find Arkéa. 

Just as his fears were starting to blossom into full-fledged panic he spotted the curve of a neck and back that he'd have recognised anywhere. Warren had blood trickling down one arm, and his jersey was almost ripped off across the shoulder. But he was still upright, still in the race, and not lying in the back of an ambulance. Romain sighed with a relief that almost made him dizzy, and pushed his way into their team line. 

Quintana began to protest, but Romain told him about the neutralisation, and his face cleared. “Go,” he said, gesturing to Warren. 

Romain nodded his thanks, and didn't wait around to see if Quintana would change his mind. The two of them dropped back until they were just in front of the convoy of cars, and Romain breathed out for what felt like the first time in twelve days. 

“You're hurt,” he said stupidly. 

“Just bruises,” Warren said, and grinned. “You should've seen the other guy. I can feel nothing's broken. Have you seen the queue for the doctor's car? I'd rather wait to get patched up at the finish.” 

“You're bleeding,” Romain said, and he was so _tired_ of all the pain they continually put themselves through. 

“You've seen me bleed before,” Warren said, and it hurt Romain to hear just how matter of fact he was about it. “You've seen bits of my _skeleton_. What's the matter, brave heart?” 

Romain wanted to say, _don't call me that here_ , but he was too grateful for the comfort. He didn't even know how to begin to put everything into words. 

“Oh Wawa,” he said, voice unsteady. “I've really screwed up this time. I've ruined _everything_.” 

“Tell me,” Warren said patiently. 

Romain had never been good at talking about his feelings. He got too emotional, too tangled up in the words and phrases themselves to make any sense. But Warren listened as though nothing was more important than the mess Romain's heart was in, and by the time Romain had faltered his way through everything that had happened he felt as drained as if he'd been racing hard the entire time. 

“We'll get through this together, whatever happens,” Warren said, and Romain sighed, feeling the ache in his chest ease a little. 

“I don't want to leave the team,” he confessed, and even just saying the words out loud was scary. “It's not just – it's the soigneurs, the mechanics, it's – I _know_ everyone. I know how they do things. I don't _want_ to have to change. But I'm going to have to, aren't I? How can I stay, after _this_? Maybe I've lost my form, maybe I'll never – ” 

“You've podiumed twice,” Warren said. “That didn't happen by accident.” 

“But what if if _did_?” Romain said, as he wouldn't have said to anyone else in the world. “What if I was just lucky? What if I can't ever do that again? Bernal, Pogačar, Evenepoel – they're so young. They're _all_ so young. What if I'm too young to have ever competed with Froome, and too old now to – to – ” 

“One day we will be,” Warren said matter of factly. “Time won't stand still. But it won't be the end of everything. I'm going to become a car salesman, and you're going to start that cycling skills academy in the town.” 

“You aren't going to become a car salesman,” Romain said, with a faint flicker of a smile. “Or, well, even if you do, they don't let you _keep_ the cars. And besides, where on earth would we store all of them?” 

“Don't care, I can still drive them,” Warren said, grinning back. “Is that really what your target for the year is? Winning the Tour?” 

Romain nodded shamefacedly. He didn't need to say that of course he knew it was absurd. 

“Then that's not on you, that's on _them_ ,” Warren said, frowning. 

“On who?” Romain said, temporarily lost. “On Bernal and all the others? It's hardly a fantasy for _them_ – ” 

“No, on AG2R,” Warren told him. “What kind of team management strategy is that? And don't give me that look, of course I don't mean because you're not good enough. We're not exactly the first people to live in the times of a dominant rider. How do you think everyone felt riding against Armstrong, year after year after year? Or Indurain, or – ” 

“I don't think the team ever believed I could do it either,” Romain admitted miserably. “Certainly not _now_.” 

“Why do you ride your bike at all, brave heart?” Warren said. “And don't even _think_ about telling me you don't know how to do anything else; that's not what I'm getting at.” 

“I... suppose because I... enjoy it?” Romain said. “Or I would if I weren't so – ” 

“That wasn't a trick question,” Warren said patiently. “Probably _no one_ here is going to beat Bernal to the top step of the podium for the next ten years. Or Ineos, anyway. That doesn't stop them racing, does it? I'm never going to have a year as good as 2017, no matter what I do. And we both know that top ten I had last year was sheer fluke. But it's not wrong to change your mind about what you're aiming for, brave heart. And you know, if you wanted a new team, you could always come to Arkéa.” 

“And ride for Quintana?” Romain said. 

“Nairo's a good guy,” Warren told him. “Yeah, I know how much I moaned in the pre-season, but... He _understands_ about having to ride for someone you don't want to. And – this is a secret, but he's leaving.” 

“What?” Romain said. 

“Back to a WT team – and no, I don't know which one. I just know he got a better offer.” 

“But you – ” began Romain. 

“Already towed you up one HC climb, and I'll do it again if I have to,” Warren said, and rolled his eyes at Romain's surprise. “Nairo was way up front with the GC group; I couldn't be of any use to him. I'd never leave you dying in the road if I could help, brave heart. I'd ride for you every day of the year if need be – but if I'm in form, I'd expect you to ride for me.” 

“Do you think they'd – want me?” Romain said, too afraid to hope. “Of _course_ I'd ride for you, but would they – I'm not – ” 

“They've been approaching big names and getting turned down for months,” Warren said, and laughed. “Come and ride with me. I can't promise for them, you know that, but – I know they'll jump at the chance. They won't pay you the big money, but we could manage. We might not always get sent to the same races, but – ” 

“Yes,” Romain said, and meant it. Such a big change was still scary, but it was hardly as though he didn't know how Warren's training plans were structured. There was always the risk of a domestic row that spilled over into work, or vice versa, but they'd both ridden for France multiple times without any problems. And – well, it had been satisfying enough to put Pierre into that good position. The possibility of doing that for _Warren_... 

For the rest of the stage they talked about other things; ordinary, domestic things which had nothing to do with the Tour. Under normal circumstances they had an absolute rule that they didn't see each other at all during a stage race, both too afraid that it would be perceived as unsportsmanlike. They wouldn't meet up, or talk, or even message each other, so Romain had expected to have to bear all his problems alone until Paris. This was a rare and precious opportunity, and he intended not to waste a single moment. Yet the end of the stage came far too soon, and Warren had to go off to his team bus, and Romain to his. 

But for the first time in months, he felt that perhaps there was a silver lining behind all the clouds that had been hanging over him. He could choose his own objectives in life, as in sport. If Arkéa really wanted him, they'd support him, just as he knew without doubt that Warren would. 

He fell asleep that night as soon as his head touched the pillow. 

_ 


	4. Stages 13 - 14: in which Romain breaks away

(Friday 10th July 2020) 

Stage 13 was a mountaintop finish, and over breakfast Romain looked at the stage profile with fresh eyes. It was a day with potential for the breakaway, and a climb that should suit him. At the team briefing he put his hand up and volunteered to try get in the break. He got more than a few surprised looks, but his DS gave him the nod to try. With the ITT coming up, most of the GC favourites would be saving their legs, so it was unlikely that Pierre would need too much support. 

For the first time in years, Romain wasn't worrying about the ITT. He was down 5m52s; what did it matter if he conceded another minute or three? As he signed on and made his way to the start line he was thinking about the stage's possibilities rather than his own shortcomings, and when the flag dropped he was ready to go. 

A break went, but it didn't stick, and within a few minutes they had been pulled back. As they hit a slight uphill drag, a second attempt launched out of the wreckage of the first. Romain sprinted to be included in it, but that too was chased down. For a few minutes everyone stayed together, and then a third surge of riders went off the front. 

Romain only had a second to decide what to do. If this move too was pulled back, he knew he wouldn't have the energy to get into a fourth one. And yet, if he let it go and it was the decisive move... He took a deep breath, and tried to think what Warren would say. And he knew that the answer was not to hesitate, but to _race_. 

Within a few seconds it was clear that the breakaway was deemed acceptable. The time gap swiftly went out to 3 minutes, and Romain took his turns on the front, doing his best to help them stay away. It was a sizeable group, and as they swung onto the first climb of the day, it was clear that there were a lot of passengers. 

Romain didn't intend to be one of them. He knew that unless they worked together they'd never make it to the finish, and it felt like a promise to Warren that he'd give his best effort. He looked carefully at who seemed to be most committed, then drifted down the line until he found De Gendt. 

“Not enough workers?” De Gendt said, raising one eyebrow. “An expert in breakaway dynamics, hmm?” 

Romain blushed, but he stuck to his guns. “I'll work,” he said. “I want to be at the finish.” There was a pause during which he began panicking that he'd accidentally violated some secret breakaway social code, and then De Gendt grinned, and began to laugh. 

“Good,” he told Romain. “Stick on my wheel. De Marchi'll come. Calmejane. Lutsenko. The usual suspects. When I go, _go._ ” 

Romain nodded obediently, and after his next turn on the front he pulled slightly off to one side rather than circling back through the line. De Gendt might've been capable of riding 150km solo at the same pace as the peloton, but Romain was under no illusions that he could do the same. The road dipped slightly for a section of false flat, and De Gendt somehow contrived to be at the front just as it began to climb again. 

Forewarned, Romain was ready to go after him as he launched off the front. For the next three kilometres he was aware of nothing but the burning in his lungs, and the ache of his legs, but as they crested the summit he glanced behind to see an empty road. 

The descent was everything it ought to be. He soared round the corners as though he were on a rollercoaster, and if the valley floor had been the finish line, Romain would've taken a stage victory. He knew it didn't mean anything, but as they settled in for 40km of endurance on the flat it no longer felt like his heart was the heaviest thing he was carrying. 

The final climb started slowly, but had three sections of 20% gradient. The peloton were far enough behind that Romain had briefly been the virtual yellow jersey on the road, but he knew all too well the relentless speed with which the GC group would climb. He looked around at his companions, and decided that his best hope was to attack on one of the steeper sections, and hope the group didn't have enough cohesion to chase him down. 

Romain's head told him to wait for the last 20% section, but his heart said that would be too late. He gritted his teeth and sat in the group, but as soon as they reached the second section, Alexey Lutsenko attacked. As he accelerated away, Romain knew the choice had been made for him. Lilian Calmejane was similarly alert to the danger, and within a few moments the three of them were clear of the rest. Romain took a deep breath, and then another, and then just as Lutsenko began to ease off he launched his own attack. 

The climb was harder than Romain had imagined possible. Every time the gradient spiked he rode away from the other two, but as soon as it eased they began to pull him back. He wasn't aware of the shouts of the crowd, the smoke from the flares, and the sweat dripping into his eyes. He was only focused on the motorbike ahead, and the gap behind him. Sometimes when he looked back he could see only Lutsenko, and sometimes Calmejane and someone else with him, but no matter how hard he rode, they were gaining. 

The actual summit was 150m from the finish line, followed by a very slight descent. As Romain finally crested it, his heart was hammering in his chest, and his legs felt like jelly. He knew he should forget about what might be happening behind, but he couldn't stop a backwards glance. 

Lutsenko was almost up to his wheel, powering onwards and looking ominously in control, although his face changed for a split second as Romain looked back at him. Romain just had time to wonder what the matter was before his front wheel wrenched sideways, and the reason became abundantly clear. 

The fall knocked all the breath out of him, but Romain didn't have time to check if he was injured. Leaping to his feet he yanked his bike away from the barrier it had tangled in, and began sprinting, not even bothering to clip in. But by the time Romain was moving again, Lutsenko was already celebrating. 

Romain automatically clasped hands with Lutsenko, then rolled to a halt, avoiding the cluster of journalists and photographers. He'd proven conclusively that he was his own worst enemy; was it any wonder he kept failing? He took the recovery drink someone handed him, and his bike was taken by a soigneur. All he wanted was to be left in peace, but instead he was led back to the team bus to warm down. 

He sat spinning mindlessly, staring off into space and deaf to everything, but his attention was eventually caught by the hushed whispers behind him. Romain couldn't help but listen, and then wished with all his heart he hadn't. He'd been riding with and against Thibaut Pinot for a decade now, since they’d both been Juniors together. They'd always been talked about in the same breath, two of the Tour's most enduringly nearly-men. Now Thibaut was in the yellow jersey, and even if he never rode a race again, all of France would be cheering his name. And yet here was Romain, sliding into the ranks of those history would pass over in silence. 

It didn't occur to him that there was another way of looking at the stage until his DS rushed up, full of congratulations. Romain hadn't won, but far better, he'd taken over 3 minutes back on the GC group. Romain stared at him blankly. He hadn't been thinking about his own GC position at all, quite sure that was impossibly out of reach. 

“So we get through tomorrow, and then we'll see where you and Pierre are, eh?” his DS said, handing him an ice pack. “Perhaps you're a double threat in the mountains. Shame you went so hard today, with the ITT coming up. Soon as you get warmed down, go and get that looked at. Make sure you haven't got concussion. No double vision, right?” 

Romain took the ice pack, suddenly aware of just how much his face hurt. “Have I got – ” he said tentatively. 

“Just the oneblack eye,” his DS said, apparently under the impression that would be reassuring. “But under 3 minutes down on GC. Good job!” 

Romain knew he was supposed to be pleased with himself. He'd assumed that all he wanted to make things right again was to be back in his original position, high up on the GC and challenging for the podium. But by the end of his warm-down he'd admitted, if only to himself, that he didn't _want_ to be doing well on GC. 

Making the decision to choose a different goal still felt foreign and scary. He'd been a GC rider for so many years, and he'd thought he'd grown used to riding with the weight of France's expectations on his shoulders. But since Warren had offered him a different path to take, Romain had felt as though he were no longer carrying a stone. And yet now he could feel that pressure settling back over him, and the grey, miserable certainty that he'd be forced to carry it through the ITT, only to let everyone down again. 

_I don't have to do this,_ he thought, and this time it was a promise to himself. _I'm_ _**choosing**_ _not to do this_. And he knew, then, that if Arkéa offered him a contract he'd take it, and if they didn't, he'd start trying to find a new team himself. Let Thibaut carry the yellow and France's hopes; Romain was going to try to find his own path. 

As Romain was trying to come to terms with this fragile, terrifying possibility, Warren and Quintana rode past. Warren took one look at the ice pack, and his eyebrows instantly started telegraphing _you're hurt; how badly; what have you done to yourself; do you need me_ _**–**_

Romain grinned weakly, and gave him a thumbs up. _I'm fine_ , he mouthed, and for the first time in a long while he thought that he really soon might be. 

_

(Saturday 11th July 2020) 

When Romain checked his phone in the morning, two emails were waiting for him. The first was from Arkéa: they'd jump at the chance to sign him, if AG2R were willing. They'd formally notified AG2R of their intention to enter discussions with him, and a draft contract was enclosed for his consideration, with the understanding that nothing could be put in writing until after August 1st. 

Romain sent it over to his lawyer for her to check through, and even the thought of the upcoming ITT couldn't quell the surge of excitement and terror. He was really going to do this, to take this leap into the unknown. 

The second was from his DS, and extremely brief: requesting a meeting after the stage. Romain felt his heart sink, and wished he'd been able to at least hint that he was unhappy enough to want to leave. He knew he couldn't have, when the regulations absolutely prohibited him from having been approached by Arkéa before they'd notified AG2R. But he wasn't sure they really covered the exact situation where a rider for Arkéa, who was also the person Romain shared his life with, had told him during a conversation on a neutralised stage that they might have a space in their roster for him. 

Having thought it through, it seemed to Romain that it could be argued it'd been against the spirit of the rules, if too unlikely an occurrence to actually be covered by any specific prohibition. The best course seemed to be to play dumb, and to say truthfully that the first he'd heard from Arkéa was by email. 

With that resolution at the back of his mind, he set off with the rest of the team on their morning recon of the course. Pierre waved everyone else ahead, then dropped back to ride with Romain. 

“Look,” he said awkwardly. “I'm not – ” 

“One day you really might win the Tour,” Romain told him. “If any of us are capable of it. You're on that path, you know. Your time's coming, if it isn't already here. I won't be around forever, and you're a much more well rounded rider. I'd like to think of you carrying the flag for the team on into the future, even when I'm gone. Just – don't let them ever push you into making decisions you know are wrong. No matter what they say, the team isn't ever more important than being a person.” 

Pierre gave him a distinctly alarmed look. “Are we talking about doping or about suicide? Because, uh, please don't do either of those things? If you need to talk to someone I'm pretty sure _anyone else_ is better qualified than me, but … those are two really _terrible_ choices?” 

“ _No!_ ” Romain said, and then hastily waved off the rest of the team when they all turned round to see what he was getting so excited about. “No, I'm certainly not – and I'm not _depressed_ , okay? I'm hopefully moving teams next year, that's all.” 

“What?” Pierre said, and nearly missed a right-hand turn. “Well, I guess that's better than the alternatives. But you've been with the team since – ” 

“Nothing's been signed yet,” Romain said hastily. “You're the only other person I've told, so just keep it to yourself, right? But whatever happens this year, even if I somehow ace this TT – which we both know I won't – it'll be you leading next year. And – there _is_ a mid-season transfer window, apparently. So if I can go sooner rather than later, I will.” 

“Where to?” Pierre said, swinging round a roundabout. 

“Arkéa,” Romain admitted. 

“Oh, well that makes sense,” Pierre said more cheerfully. “Huh. Who'd have thought it. But I mean if you miss him, you miss him. So you really don't mind – ” 

“It isn't just...” Romain began, and then stopped. Being on the same team as Warren would definitely help keep him sane, but it wasn't the primary reason he wanted to leave AG2R. It was more that he felt as though he'd fallen out of a plane years ago, and Warren had been the only one waiting to offer him a parachute when he'd finally accepted he couldn't fly. Romain was so very sick of falling. 

But it really didn't matter if Pierre or any one else understood his reasons: Warren knew, and that was enough. “I've not had too much practice at riding for someone else,” he said instead. “But...” 

“No way,” Pierre said. “If you're going, you go out on a high, okay? You do your best, and I'll do mine, and we'll see where we end up. I promise I won't go easy on you once we're rivals.” 

“Okay,” Romain said, and accepted a fist bump with good grace. “But it's a secret for now, remember.” 

“My lips are sealed!” Pierre promised, and Romain hoped he meant it. 

When they returned to the bus, their DS began getting everyone going before the ITT. The music was pumped up, and everyone was out of their seats and on their feet. Apart from Romain, they all seemed cheerful enough, but for most of the team it was simply a matter of rolling round while avoiding mishaps. Pierre had his 6th place on GC to defend, but whilst no Rohan Dennis he was still a decent time triallist, and he had 45s over Simon Yates. 

Romain bit his lip and hid at the back of the group. He tried to keep his mind focused on the thought of his new future, but it felt as though every word was jarring his already fraying nerves. When they filed out to warm up he hung back, with a desperate suggestion to offer his DS. 

Romain would undoubtedly lose minutes. Everyone there knew it, so why not take advantage of that fact? He suggested to his DS that he too just go out at a moderate pace, after which he'd be able to hunt for stage wins. He pointed out that he'd come second the previous day, and that if only he hadn't crashed – 

He knew even as he was doing his best to sell the idea that his DS was unimpressed. Romain couldn't think of any more convincing arguments, his mind going blank with sheer panic, and he was ordered to ride as though he were in yellow. He was going off 17th from last, and as he warmed up all he could think of was how nonsensical it was that anyone had ever seen him as a GC contender. The minutes dragged by, and one by one the team took their places in the tent, ready to set off. At last only Pierre and Romain were left, and then his turn came. 

He made his way through the bike checks and took his place in the start tent, heart clenching in shame and self-loathing when he saw that he'd be going off after Evenepoel and before Urán. The only question left in Romain's mind was how many of the top sixteen would pass him. 

Drowning in his own thoughts as he was, Romain still started when a tiny stone hit him in the arm. He looked up indignantly, and there further along the line was Warren. 

He didn't say anything in front of the other riders, but Warren pointed at his own eyebrow, and Romain suddenly remembered that even the visor on his helmet couldn't hide his black eye. He managed a feeble smile, and Warren promptly rolled his eyes, and pointed slightly more obviously. Romain shook his head. What hurt was his heart and his pride; his face was only bruised. He gestured towards his own shoulder, and Warren obligingly wiggled his arm; it wasn't too painful. 

Warren leaned back then, so he could see Romain without including Evenepoel and Majka in the silent conversation, and gave him a long heartfelt look, followed by a nod. Romain sighed under his breath, but he nodded back. This was, after all, only a temporary awfulness. The day's worst times seemed to be clustered at about 30 minutes, so in just over half an hour he could move on. The discussion with his DS might go badly, but no one could ever make him live through this specific ITT again. 

Warren grinned encouragingly at him, that cheeky smile which made Romain's heart turn over painfully, and then he was gone, a cheer erupting from the start house as he set off. Romain gritted his teeth, and prepared to ride as if he were in yellow. 

He'd never worked so hard on his hated TT bike, yet with every time gap he could hear he was falling behind. At the first checkpoint he was 25s down on the pace. Romain tried to force his head down, tried to keep his arms straight, tried to measure his effort as though the numbers were all that mattered. Every time someone on the road cheered his name he wanted to scream back at them to save their enthusiasm for someone who was actually worth it. 

As he approached the second checkpoint he could tell from the sound of the crowd that someone was closing on him. Romain felt panic and adrenaline flooding his veins, and managed to eke out a few more watts. Yet within another few kilometres a shadow appeared at the corner of his vision, and Urán swept past. As they approached the line Romain was sprinting flat out, all thoughts of aero positions gone from his mind. All he could see was the Marseille Vélodrome, and all he could hear was the sound of the clock counting all of his hopes down to nothing. 

When he eventually crossed the line, he keeled over into the arms of a soigneur, gasping for breath. No one told him his time, and Romain discovered later that they thought they were being kind. 

When he finally sat down with his DS, Romain was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. All he wanted was to collapse into bed, but he knew he'd never get a better opportunity to make his case to leave. His performance had been abysmal; the team could have no possible reason to want to retain him. 

His DS heard him out patiently, and when Romain had faltered his way to the end he nodded thoughtfully. 

“You've been thinking this through for some time, haven't you?” he asked. 

Romain blinked. “Yes,” he lied. “For a while. I don't think – it isn't fair to the sponsor – you're paying me too much, and I can't deliver, I couldn't deliver _all year_ , and you've got Pierre, and Benoît, and – ” 

“I've had people ask to get out of their contract before, but I've never had someone tell me we were paying them too much money,” his DS said with a wry smile. “Alright, I'll put the case to team management. If they agree, we'll let you go at once.” 

Romain supposed he ought to be hurt that they valued him so little. But as he lay in his bed listening to the rain patter against the window, it felt like thankfulness and hope raining down around him. 

_


	5. Stages 15 - 16: in which Romain measures the distance, Warren takes the lead, and Ineos cause an incident

(Sunday 12th July 2020) 

Stage 15 was one of the short stages the Tour had been experimenting with in recent years. After a swift descent it barely hit the valley floor before beginning to climb again. For around 16km it rose at a constant gradient, before ramping up sharply and irregularly in the final 2km. 

Romain had been in an odd mood ever since he woke up that morning. He'd heard nothing from his lawyer, and his DS hadn't referred to their conversation at all, either to him or to the rest of the team. It felt rather like being stuck in a holding pattern, while he waited to find out if he'd ever be allowed to land. 

The race had begun descending even before the flag dropped, and Romain had already decided he was too exhausted from the ITT to even attempt to get into the break. But it was the kind of descent he loved best, technical enough to be challenging, but smooth enough to get him into that perfect flow state. 

He certainly didn't intend to make his way forward through the peloton. But with every corner he swooped round, Romain found himself overtaking or undertaking slower riders, and long before they'd reached the valley he found himself on the front, and then making his way down by himself. The break became visible further down the mountain, and at that point it seemed stupid not to try and catch them, even if their chances of surviving to contest the stage win were zero. 

He cut it rather fine, but Romain caught the break before the end of the descent. As usual he'd forgotten the intermediate sprint, but most of his breakaway companions were there for that reason only. Romain began working through the group, and to his relief he found De Marchi and Giulio Ciccone. The three of them didn't share a common language, but with a bit of back and forth they established that they'd go all out on the climb, and hope to make it to at least the 2km mark before they even considered attacking each other. 

It was at that point Sagan rode up next to them. He had a brief conversation with the other two, but Romain's Italian wasn't good enough to make out any more than that they were negotiating something. 

Sagan noticed Romain's incomprehension, and switched to English. “I ride on the flat,” he said. “You on the climb, and tow me, yes?” 

“Yes,” Romain said hastily, and that appeared to be that. As they approached the intermediate sprint Sagan and the sprinters launched themselves at it, and Romain's little trio did their best not to fall too far behind. He didn't notice who won, but as soon as it was over most of the breakaway visibly sat up. Sagan hung back a bit to collect his charges, and with the three of them plus Viviani on his wheel sped off towards the climb. 

Once the road began to to slope upwards the two sprinters dropped back, and Romain, De Marchi and Ciccone began to take turns pulling on the front. They worked together quite smoothly, and with 7km behind them Romain was having to suppress thoughts of the stage win. He knew it was absurd – Sagan had dropped away after 4km, but Viviani was still there, and he could outsprint all three of them without even breaking a sweat. And yet, there was no sign of anyone behind. 

That lasted for another half kilometre, after which he glanced over his shoulder to see Pogačar, Mollema and Bernal bearing down on them. Romain did his best to accelerate as they passed, but it was like trying to catch a race car. Ciccone somehow managed to latch on to them, leaving Romain with De Marchi and Viviani, who was barely hanging on to De Marchi's wheel as it was. 

Romain didn't try to ride away from them. There didn't seem any point, when there were three people up the road with over 12km of the climb left to go. He doubted very much that he'd still be ahead of any of the GC group by the top. As if to prove him right, less than a minute later the next pair of riders came up from behind. Romain felt like he was going backwards down the mountain, and his heart sunk even further as he saw Pierre. 

He didn't think he had any breath left to ride on the front, but Romain knew what his duty was, and he knew he had to try. He began shifting across the road towards Pierre, but Pierre waved him off, and yelling something incomprehensible vanished off up the road with Nibali. 

Romain assumed the yell had been directed at him, but Pierre was a man who talked to his legs, so it was entirely possible that it'd been a private conversation. He shook the sweat out of his eyes, then grabbed a bottle from someone beside the road and tipped it over his head. The cold water seemed to help a little, and for the next kilometre he measured the distance out in bottles, although he had a near miss when someone handed him a Coke. 

As they reached the 9km to go marker Viviani and De Marchi fell behind, leaving Romain to struggle on alone. He wasn't looking any further than the next group of flags waved in his face, the next bottle offered, the next hairpin, so it came as a shock when he realised he was closing in on someone. The fans packed the road so tightly he couldn't see who it was, but as he came round a hairpin he realised it was Ciccone. 

Romain ground out the metres until he reached Ciccone, but it was clear the Italian was slowing, and it was easier just to keep going than to try to work together with him. He could sense Ciccone behind him for a while, but by the time Romain reached the 8km to go marker he was alone again. Not for long, however, as the next time he looked back he saw a small group of GC riders. 

As they sped past him he saw Warren on the front, working for Quintana. Warren shot him a lightning fast glance which said _I'm sorry, I need to do this_ and Romain tried to make a face which would convey _I know,_ _this is racing, you idiot_. He managed to cling on to the back of the group for another 2km, but then there was an acceleration at the front, and Romain was dropped, along with Majka and Urán. 

He hadn't got the energy left to feel sorry for himself. He just focused on the road ahead and kept grabbing bottles, until he began catching glimpses of someone's back wheel ahead at each corner. Urán seemed too done to do anything more than sit in the wheels, but Majka alternated turns with Romain, and he felt himself riding a bit more easily as he took his turns to draft. 

They caught the rider ahead, and to Romain's complete bewilderment it was Froome. It felt incredibly wrong to be riding past the man whose invincible performances had been the standard Romain had compared himself to so unhappily for so long. But Froome had always tended to yo-yo off the back while he rode to his numbers, and Romain assumed he'd soon catch them again. 

The air was starting to get thinner as they climbed, and Romain felt his breath coming harder. Majka obviously noticed that he was struggling, and as they rounded the next hairpin he attacked. Romain shrugged mentally: he'd barely been able to pull his turns, and certainly wasn't able to follow him. Urán eventually dropped back, and for the next agonisingly long minutes Romain's only company was the deafening crowd, and the sight of Majka just too far ahead to catch. 

When he reached the final 2km of the climb the road sloped upwards like a wall. Romain kept grinding away, too tired to worry about how anyone else was doing. He barely noticed passing Majka and Yates. He barely noticed the finish, except that suddenly there was no more road in front of him. 

As Romain slid off his bike to the ground, a jubilant Pierre rushed over to him. Apparently he was up to 4th place, at a mere 41s back on GC. Romain was pleased for him, and just the fact that he felt that way was progress, but he didn't feel that he'd contributed anything to Pierre's achievement. 

“What are you talking about?” Pierre said, baffled. “I had you to bridge across to.” 

“But I didn't do anything,” Romain protested once he could breathe again. “I was too done to help you – ” 

“You were right there as a stepping stone for me!” Pierre insisted. “And if I'd been struggling, you'd have dropped back to help, right?” 

Romain didn't know, but he hoped that he would've, so he nodded. 

“There you go, then!” Pierre said, and with that he was whisked off to talk to the TV cameras. 

As Romain made his weary way back to the team bus he turned over what Pierre had said in his mind. He still didn't _feel_ as though he'd been of any help, but he'd been in Pierre's position plenty of times himself. He certainly hadn't judged any of his teammates poorly if, having bridged up to them, he'd ridden straight past. That had been his call to make, depending on how he'd been feeling, and all he'd asked of them was that they be there in the right position. 

Apparently Romain still had a lot to learn about not being a team leader. But he'd not been getting anywhere learning the same painful lessons year after year after year. Perhaps it was time he learned something new. 

_

(Monday 13th July 2020) 

When Romain checked his phone in the morning, he'd had a reply from his lawyer. She'd passed the draft contract, with just two small corrections she felt would improve the clarity of the wording. Romain took a deep breath, and sent it on to Arkéa, and the future he'd been imagining suddenly felt that much more real. 

Stage 16 was a rolling, hilly day, with only one category 3 climb just past the intermediate sprint. Romain sat in the wheels with the team, and wondered if this might be the last time that he did. He wasn't having second thoughts, but he couldn't help a pang of nostalgia. He had, after all, spent most of his adult life riding in blue and brown, while it was the people around him who'd come and gone. 

The breakaway was caught at 9km, and everyone began positioning themselves for the sprint. Romain was two positions in front of Pierre in the line, and he caught a brief glimpse of Warren, who appeared to be in the leadout for Nacer Bouhanni. Romain hoped fervently that he'd be careful – Warren was a skinny climber who had no place in a proper sprinter's leadout, and while his 2020 season had so far been free of any major injuries, Romain hadn't forgotten how much pain he'd been in after his two nasty crashes the year before. 

There was the usual churn in the peloton as they approached the 3km to go mark, but as they passed under the arch everyone breathed a sigh of relief, Romain included. The GC teams slackened their pace, and Romain assumed that his job was done for the day, and that all he had to do was to roll across the finish line. 

But as they reached 2km to go, suddenly people in front were touching their brakes, and Romain's heart sank as he realised there must have been a crash. He slowed right down, but no one actually came to a halt, and he hoped that was a good sign. He looked around for any clue to what had happened, but AG2R were too much in the middle of the peloton for Romain to see anything at all. He rolled over to the finish and back to the team bus, and wrote it off as just another racing incident. But as he was warming down, an angry David Gaudu rode past, and stopped to ask Romain to join in the protest. 

“What protest?” Romain asked, baffled. “Did Démare get disqualified or something?” 

“Disqualified!” Gaudu said hotly. “He was completely impeded. Talk about unsafe! As we were coming under the 2km to go arch Ineos were chucking bottles all over the place, heaven alone knows why, as it isn't like they're here to do anything except win the GC. They shouldn't even have still been up the front! One hit Ramon's front wheel, and he swerved into someone trying to lead out Trentin, and then – ” 

“Wait a minute,” Romain said, feeling completely unequal to this degree of outrage. “What were _you_ doing up the front?” 

“We were being _bombarded_ by Ineos!” Gaudu said, not noticeably calmer. “The CCC guy went down right in the middle of the road, so our leadout train stopped to try to avoid him, but Arnaud was _right there_ ready to sprint, so what else was I supposed to do but try and lead him out?” 

“Er, I see,” Romain said. “So the sprint was ruined?” 

“Won by _Bouhanni_ ,” Gaudu said contemptuously. “We all dragged our sprinters over 2000m just for that!” 

“Oh! That's... that's just awful,” Romain said, feeling suddenly very proud of Warren. “Tell Démare better luck next time. Ineos, they're so terrible, right?” 

“You pure GC teams are all the same,” Gaudu said, rolling his eyes. “I'll tweet you the protest. At least show some fellow feeling and sign it!” 

Romain didn't exactly forget, but he didn't get a chance to look at his phone till after his massage and dinner, and by that time the tweet storm seemed to have blown itself out. Rather than the whole of Ineos conducting a sustained barrage, it sounded as though a highly apologetic Ian Stannard had thrown a bidon towards the crowd, only for it to bounce off a street sign and hit Sinkeldam's wheel. The whole messy situation had unfolded from there. 

There really didn't seem to be any need for Romain to do anything, but he liked Gaudu's post just for plausible deniability. He scrolled on absently, but his attention was caught when a notification popped up to say that Warren had posted a new story on Instagram. 

It showed Warren grinning hugely and giving a thumbs up, while in the background Bouhanni stood proud on the podium. Romain's heart lifted, though their rules meant he couldn't even like the post, but he still hoped that Warren wasn't getting a taste for taking part in lead-outs. As a climber there was less risk of someone _else_ breaking Warren's bones, and Romain had a vested interest in keeping him in one piece. 

_


	6. Rest Day: in which Romain is given some advice, an offer, and a keyring

(Tuesday 14th July 2020) 

Romain was up early on the rest day. He didn't intend to be, but his upcoming meeting with Arkéa was playing on his mind. After breakfast he was sent off for his recovery ride, but though his body went through the motions, his thoughts were elsewhere. 

Halfway round the course he'd been set he bumped into EF's climbers, clearly doing the same route, and van Garderen hailed him as an old friend. Romain grinned back rather guiltily, and fell in with them. 

“So I was thinking about what you said the other day,” van Garderen began. Romain blinked. He wasn't aware that he'd said anything at all, apart from _mmm_ at hopefully frequent enough intervals. “Leadership; it's pretty complicated, yeah?” 

“Er... yeah,” Romain said. He couldn't even remember what van Garderen had been talking about, let alone what he himself had supposedly said in response. But van Garderen launched himself upon a detailed monologue on the finer points of a leader's mentality, and Romain's mind drifted back to his own preoccupations. 

Arkéa had two great advantages: they weren't a GC team, and they had Warren. No other team could boast the second, but what Romain was desperate to avoid was jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. He needed to make abundantly clear before anything was agreed that he wanted to shift the focus of his career. If Arkéa were going to sign him, it would have to be on that basis. 

Of course, as a ProTeam, Arkéa were dependent on wildcard invitations to the three Grand Tours. It was entirely possible he might ride none of them next year. That was a scary feeling, but it was exciting too. Romain could never go back to the days when he was an unknown rider, racing purely for the joy of finding out what he could do, but he could still opt to move forward towards that kind of racing again. 

With a start he realised they were swinging back downhill towards town, and he'd tuned van Garderen out entirely. But the American seemed delighted to have had a chance to talk, and they parted with a cheerful fistbump and a promise on van Garderen's part to send Romain several TED talks he might find interesting. 

Romain shook his head, and hurried back to the hotel. He just had time to shower and change, and then he made his way across town to Arkéa's hotel. At the back of his mind he was hoping he might at least catch sight of Warren, but the only people he saw were team staff and his prospective DS. 

The meeting was meant to last an hour, but it ended up going for almost three, and by the end of it Romain felt as wrung out as though he'd been riding up a mountain. Arkéa's DS had had a long list of searching questions, and Romain felt he'd turned his heart and soul inside out and offered them up for scrutiny. This _mattered_ , and he'd known that absolute honesty was his only hope. But as hard as it had been, at the end he was offered a two year contract, starting in the mid-season transfer window. 

He'd be expected to ride for his teammates, which for the rest of the year included Quintana. He'd be expected to help lead out Bouhanni. He'd be earning exactly the same as Warren. And non-negotiably, he'd be seeing the team's sports psychologist twice a week. 

Romain was less than thrilled about that. He found talking about himself painfully difficult, even to Warren, and he shrank from the thought of opening up to a stranger. But his hopefully future DS had made it very clear that he considered the team's mental health at least as important as their physical condition. And Romain had to concede, if only privately, that the worst of his problems always came from between his ears. He didn't have to enjoy talking to a therapist, he just had to do it. 

In return, he'd be sent to the one day races and classics he longed to try his hand at, depending on the team's needs. And when they were at the same races, he'd get to room with Warren. It sounded so stupid put like that, but just this once, Romain thought that maybe happiness was worth looking foolish for. 

As he was leaving the hotel, still looking back for any sign of Warren, he stepped out and walked right into Quintana. Romain stopped dead, an embarrassed apology faltering to a halt. He wanted to say, _how did you do it?_ He wanted to say, _please understand I'm not here to push you out_. He wanted to say, _don't judge me as a GC contender, I never was, and I'm leaving those expectations behind_ . Above all he wanted to say, _I'm sorry_. But Quintana didn't speak much French or English, and Romain's Spanish was limited to racing terms and picking his way through a menu. 

Quintana looked at him and grinned, and suddenly he looked a lot less like a multiple Grand Tour winner, and more like a man Romain's own age. He held his hand out, and with great cordiality they shook on it. Romain couldn't help but smile back, and it felt like a good omen. 

By the time he got back to the team hotel he was starving, and he just had time to update his own DS over a quick lunch before going out again. His parents met him in the car park, and Romain wasn't prepared for the rush of emotions as they hugged him. Rather than run the risk of sitting next to a journalist, they drove over to the next town, ending up at a tiny café beside a wide river. 

Romain gulped down some coffee, and took a deep breath, and began to explain that he'd decided to upend his entire career. His parents didn't listen the way Warren had – they interrupted constantly, so that he told the story out of order, skipping around all over the place and doubling back on himself. But their support was just as unconditional, and Romain felt the knots of tension in his stomach beginning to relax. 

“You will be able to afford it?” his father said. “It won't put you two in any money trouble? If you need any help while you get used to managing – ” 

“We'll be just fine,” Romain said, grateful to the bottom of his heart. “I promise you we wouldn't end up starving, even if Arkéa kicked us both out tomorrow. But _thank you_.” 

“And Warren understands?” asked his mother. “It'd do you both good to be able to see each other during races without worrying so much _.”_

“The rules _are_ there for a reason,” Romain said with a flicker of a smile, “but... yeah. It was his idea. It's not – I'm probably not going to win anything any time soon now, I mean – maybe _ever_ , but – this is what I want to do – ” 

“We'll be proud of you whatever you end up doing!” his father said. “Even when you're running that cycling skills academy years from now. Oh, and speaking of Warren, we went for lunch with his parents earlier, and they sent you some encouragement.” 

Romain took the small package, tipping it out into his hand to reveal a keyring. It featured a cheerful blue fish, emblazoned with the legend Just Keep Swimming. He clipped it onto his bag, where he'd see it every day, and felt himself loved. 

Back at the hotel after dinner, he leaned out of the window with the rest of the team to watch the July 14th fireworks. He was only five days away from Paris, and whether he finished 15th or 50th on GC, at _last_ he'd be able to move on to something new. Everyone who cared about him was nothing but supportive, and for the first time in a long while he was genuinely excited about what the future might bring. All he had to do was to keep swimming for five more days. 

_ 


	7. Stage 17: in which Romain tangles with a dog, Gianni Moscon, and the race jury

(Wednesday 15h July 2020) 

“P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sidney!” said Benoît Cosnefroy. 

Romain blinked at him. “What?” 

“P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sidney!” Benoît repeated. “You know, Dory's catchphrase. _Dory_ ,” he said, pointing at Romain's keyring. “You have _seen_ Finding Nemo? Why've you got her on your bag if you haven't?” 

“Oh yes,” Romain said hastily. “Yep. I've seen it.” He'd seen at least the first five minutes, because Warren, who still enjoyed Saturday morning cartoons, had insisted they watch it. Admittedly he'd fallen asleep after that, and woken up to the not especially surprising revelation that Nemo had indeed been found, but there was no need to say anything about that part. 

“I love Dory,” Benoît said. “She's my favourite. The bit where – ” 

But Romain never found out what she'd done that was so memorable, as at that point their DS cleared his throat for attention. 

Stage 17 was a medium mountain stage ahead of the three last days in the high mountains. Above 2000m no one could match Bernal, so everyone was expected to treat it as the most decisive stage. For that reason their DS wanted at least one of them in the breakaway and one in a chase group, ready to drop back and assist Pierre as needed. 

Romain found himself volunteering quite cheerfully. It would be good practice for his new team role, and after all, he'd got to get over the mountains to reach Paris. He might as well be in the breakaway as sat in the peloton. 

The break formed far too easily, and it was obvious that every GC team wanted someone up the road. Romain exchanged nods with De Marchi and Calmejane, and once they reached the first climb the three of them attacked. By the time they were at the steepest section they had a group of seven working well together, and a gap of over 1m30s to the large group they'd left behind. 

As they approached the summit, De Marchi went off the front. Romain fished for a gel in his back pockets, his attention momentarily diverted, but it slipped from his fingers when someone banged hard into his elbow as they came past. 

Romain heaved an annoyed sigh. Of _course_ it was Gianni Moscon sprinting to beat De Marchi over the line. As far as he knew the Ineos rider had no interest in mountains points, and given that there were 3km of false flat after the summit, it was unlikely he could be trying an attack. It looked as though his only motive was to spite De Marchi, and in the process ruin the group's co-operation. Which wasn't entirely an unreasonable motive for Bernal's teammate, Romain supposed, but that didn't mean he had to like it. 

By the time the rest of them had caught up, the two Italians were having a row. Romain didn't understand most of it, but there was plenty of swearing, and De Marchi was clearly furious. Eventually they ran out of things to say to each other, and De Marchi very pointedly took up a position at the rear of the group, where he could watch exactly what Moscon was up to. 

Romain exchanged a glance with Sébastien Reichenbach, clearly also wishing himself well out of the whole awkward situation. Once they began to descend he ended up at the front, and soon he was too busy picking his lines to think about the group dynamics. Yet he was hyper aware that Moscon was right behind, as if glued to his wheel. He couldn't say exactly why it made him uncomfortable, but he wished it were almost anyone else. 

As they sped downhill, suddenly a dog rushed out into the road. Romain had only a split second to react. If he turned right, a low barrier was all that stood between him and a sheer drop. If he turned left he'd likely bring the whole group down. 

But he wasn't about to run over someone's pet, so he yanked his handlebars hard to the left, and the next thing he knew he was on the ground with Moscon landing on top of him. The Ineos rider's helmet crashed hard into Romain's, and he winced in pain as his already black eye took another knock. His ears rang with the impact, and for a second he just lay still, letting his thought roam down his body with lightning speed, feeling out whether he was injured. He'd definitely taken most of the skin off his left hip, and he'd banged his head again, but nothing seemed to be broken. 

That was as far as Romain had got before he was hauled unceremoniously to his feet by Moscon. Romain blinked at him, ears still ringing. He shook his head, and the noise resolved into yelling, but it still didn't make any sense. Moscon was leaning right into his face, shaking his fists, his own helmet hanging askew. 

Romain shook his head again; not a no, but simply meaning that he didn't understand. “What – ” he began, but before he could get any further, Moscon shoved him hard. Romain stumbled backwards, tripping on his bike and landing with his already injured hip smashing into the barrier. As he scrambled to his feet, his hands clenched into fists. He lurched forward, blazing with fury, and pulled back his arm and – 

And he couldn't do it. Despite his anger, all he could think was that he'd never be able to explain it to Warren if he were kicked off the race for getting into a fistfight. If anyone deserved hitting it was Moscon, but Romain had always been too good at suppressing his feelings in public not to be the bigger man. 

He lowered his hands non-threateningly and backed away, his legs still shaking with post-crash adrenaline. “There was a dog,” he said in careful English, as he reached for his bike. “A dog. It ran out in front – ” 

“Then you should've _hit the fucking dog_ ,” Moscon said, low and vicious, and yanked at Romain's back wheel. For a horrifying moment Romain thought he was about to pull it off and throw it over the barrier, or that he'd be forced to take part in an impromptu tug of war for his own bike. But there was a loud cough, and Bob Jungels was suddenly standing between the two of them. 

“De Marchi's gone clear with Skujiņš,” he said conversationally. “We'll be lucky if we see them again today.” 

Moscon snarled something savage and went to retrieve his own bike. Romain's hands were shaking as he rode off, although whether from the crash or the shock or sheer disbelief he wasn't sure. 

“Thanks,” he said to Jungels, as he finally managed to clip in. “I didn't – there _was_ a dog – ” 

“He's just mad because he broke his sunglasses,” Jungels said, rolling his eyes. “As much as Moscon ever needs a reason for a fight, anyway.” 

“Oh,” Romain said feebly, reaching up to check for his own, and discovering they were gone. “What – where's everyone else?” 

“Skujiņš and De Marchi avoided the crash and carried on. Calmejane and Reichenbach put a foot down, but that was about it. I soft-landed on the grass.” 

“Thanks,” Romain said again, and then he had to save his breath as the road turned upwards. As they climbed his hip began bleeding more profusely, and though it was only road rash it began seeping through what was left of his shorts. They didn't see any sign of the rest of the break, and by the time they'd reached the next summit the shock had worn off enough that he was able to concentrate again. 

The descent was short and sharp, but Romain didn't even think of trying to lose Jungels. As far as he was concerned, the stage win was long gone, and he just wanted to make it to the finish intact. And help Pierre if need be, of course. As the thought came into his mind he realised he hadn't heard anything from his radio since the crash. He fished it out from under his jersey, and sighed at the discovery that it was in several pieces. 

He didn't have long to wonder what was going on in the GC race behind. Less than 500m into the final climb Kruijswijk and Majka came powering past, with Nibali chasing, then a steady stream of GC riders and superdomestiques. Romain soft-pedalled his way up the road, carefully inspecting each group, and at last he spotted Pierre, locked grimly onto Mollema's wheel. 

Romain wasn't going to let either him or the team down this time. He pulled across in front of Pierre, and yelled over his shoulder, “broken radio.” Pierre nodded breathlessly, and Romain put his head down and got on with riding. Mollema dropped back, letting Romain sit in the wind, and as the road wound upwards he almost forgot they were behind him, so focused was he on clawing his way up the mountain. 

The kilometres ticked by, and gradually, gradually, he began to pull back the group ahead. Romain could feel himself fading, but with one final effort he delivered Pierre onto Thibaut's back wheel. Pierre flashed him a thumbs up, and Romain thankfully slackened his pace a little. 

The GC group pulled away, but Romain had done everything he possibly could to help Pierre. He had less than 3km left to ride, and as if in anticipation of the finish, he became aware of just how much he'd jarred everything in the crash. He was no stranger to riding with worse injuries than a few cuts and bruises, but that didn't mean they hurt any less. 

As Romain wearily rode on, Moscon appeared again, bringing up Froome and Bernal. He shot Romain a baleful look clearly designed to intimidate, and Romain suddenly found he had just enough energy left to latch onto Bernal's back wheel. There wasn't much he could do to get back at Moscon, and he had just enough self control not to try, but at the very least he wasn't going to allow the Ineos rider the satisfaction of dropping him. 

Once they had passed under the 2km to go banner, they rode up into the rain. Romain shivered, and immediately panic shot through him. Moscon or no Moscon, he wasn't going to bonk on the final climb again, so he let Bernal's wheel go and fished around in his back pockets for a gel. All he found was a sticky mess, and he realised his fall had burst all the packets he was carrying. He licked his fingers, feeling rather silly, but carbs were still carbs, and after three or four rather disgustingly mixed-flavour handfuls the energy made it to his legs. 

Romain didn't ever quite manage to close the gap again, but Moscon gave him a target to aim at even after Froome and Bernal disappeared, and in the end he crossed the finish line just a few seconds behind the Ineos rider. He made his tired way back to the team bus, and once his injuries had been deemed minor he was sent to warm down. 

When he'd finished he swiped a weary and still somewhat sticky hand over his face, and made his way to the door of the bus. But before he could get on board, he was stopped by a UCI official. 

“The race jury?” Romain said, baffled. “ _Why_?” 

“I really can't say,” the man said. “If you'd like to come this way – ” 

“What's the matter?” his DS said, appearing from nowhere as though some sixth sense had told him he was needed. 

“I don't know!” Romain protested. “The race jury want to see me. But I haven't _done_ anything – ” 

They were led off to the video truck, and Romain learned that he'd been accused of deliberate obstruction of another rider. 

“Moscon,” he spat out, throwing his hands up in the air. “It was, wasn't it? He's such a – ” 

“I'm sure we'll get this mistake cleared up in no time at all,” his DS said, laying a deceptively casual-looking hand on Romain's arm. “Can we have the particulars of the accusation, please?” 

By the time Romain had heard the details he was so angry he felt he could combust. Moscon had accused him of deliberately causing the crash, recklessly endangering the entire breakaway in an attempt to rob Bernal of a crucial mountain domestique. He'd shown the jury a collection of cuts and bruises he claimed he was about to have x-rayed, and then _lied through his teeth_ about Romain punching him. 

Romain had to sit there in silence, seething, while the whole story was relayed to him and his DS, but they were interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door of the truck. One of the commissaires went to investigate, but Romain couldn't concentrate on anything beyond the lies Moscon had told about him. 

He was at last given the opportunity to tell his side of the story, and he began to explain about the dog. But before he'd got very far the commissaire came back, and then all of them went into a little huddle by the door. 

His DS used the opportunity to put his hand on Romain's shoulder, forcibly turning him away from staring at them. 

“Tell me what happened,” he said, low and quick. 

“There _was_ a dog!” Romain said in a furious whisper. “And I couldn't exactly hit it, could I! So I crashed, and Moscon came down right on top. Then next thing he was shoving me into the barriers and okay, I might have _thought_ about hitting him, but I didn't! He's just lying because – ” 

“Witnesses?” his DS said, cool and practical. 

“Well,” Romain said, taking a deep breath and trying to step back from his anger. “Well, Jungels. He saw Moscon push me – he _must've_ seen Moscon push me, as he broke it up! He can _prove_ I never laid a hand on him. And the rest of the guys in the break, I'm not sure how much they'd have been able to see, but they must've seen the dog at least. De Marchi had a row with Moscon earlier, so he can say what sort of mood he was in – ” 

“And you definitely didn't hit him?” his DS asked seriously. “We can deal with whatever you did or didn't do later, but I need to know the absolute truth.” 

“I _never touched him!_ ” Romain said, feeling that if one more person disbelieved him he was almost ready to walk off the race entirely. 

The commissaires came back from the doorway. “If you could finish your account, please,” one of them said. “There are a couple of other witnesses who'd like to add their versions of events.” 

“Who?” Romain demanded. 

“Other riders,” the commissaire said unhelpfully. “Your account of the incident, please.” 

Romain tried to tell his story as calmly and unemotionally as possible, but he couldn't keep the undercurrent of anger out of his voice as he described Moscon pushing him, then grabbing his bike. He couldn't tell whether they believed him or not, but when he had finished he and his DS were sent outside again to wait. 

To his enormous relief the riders outside were a grim looking Jungels and De Marchi, and not the whole of Ineos prepared to back up their teammate's lies. The two were ushered into the truck, and after the longest half an hour of Romain's life not spent on a TT bike, they re-emerged. 

“What did they say?” Romain said anxiously. “I can't believe he – I can't believe _anyone_ would make up a pack of lies just because he broke his sunglasses!” 

“We saw the dog,” De Marchi said. “It nearly took out Skujiņš too on the next corner, and he shouted at some people by the roadside to catch it. He'll swear to it.” He gave Romain a grin, savouring the irony. “Looks like little Gianni's only got himself into hot water, not you.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Romain said fervently. “What did I ever do to him?!” 

“It's not you,” said Jungels. “It's him. It's _definitely_ him. So this one time I was out training when I saw him on the same climb, and – ” 

The three of them spent a pleasant few minutes discussing Moscon's character flaws, before Romain and his DS were called back into the truck to receive the verdict. After review of his and Moscon's stories, the video footage, and Jungels and De Marchi's evidence, the commissaires had decided that Romain hadn't deliberately obstructed Moscon, and that the crash had been unavoidable. However, he would be fined 200 CHF and penalised by 1 second for inappropriate behaviour during his confrontation with Moscon. 

Romain choked down his anger, although his knuckles turned white under the table. “Thank you,” he said as civilly as he could manage. They were then sent outside while Moscon was summoned again. 

After at least half an hour of hanging about, Moscon and Dave Brailsford finally arrived, trailed by the crowd of journalists attracted by anything Ineos did. Romain was prepared to refuse to comment, but it seemed none of them had connected his presence with that of Moscon, and he and his DS were thankfully ignored. There was such a long wait that Romain's anger had almost entirely dissolved into boredom, but at last Moscon and Brailsford emerged. 

Moscon came over with a face like thunder, and in a flat, unconvincing tone he apologised for his behaviour. Even an hour earlier Romain might have refused it, but he was exhausted and fed up, and accepting Moscon's apology was the fastest way back to the team hotel. So he unwillingly shook hands, and gave the photographers the best attempt at a smile he could dredge up. The two DSs had a low-voiced conversation, and then while the journalists mobbed Brailsford, Romain was at last free to go. 

The team bus had long since departed, but his DS had got a team car standing by. Romain slumped in his seat and wished with all his heart that he could magically be at the end of stage 21, ready to go home with Warren, the Tour safely behind him. He could only imagine that for the rest of the race Moscon would do his best to take his revenge. 

“He won't, because he's being sent home,” his DS said dryly. “Weren't you listening to what he said at all?” 

“Not really,” Romain admitted with a yawn. “I shook hands with him, alright? I think I did the diplomatic enough thing. He's being sent home? Really? _Good_.” 

His DS gave him a sidelong look, clearly making allowances for just how eventful Romain's day had been, and changed the subject. “I had a call with team management this morning.” 

“And?” Romain said, his throat suddenly dry. 

“You can go,” his DS said with a smile. “We'll pay you up till July 31st, and after that you're Arkéa's problem. But do see if you can manage not to cause any more trouble in your last sixteen days with us.” 

“I _promise_ ,” Romain said fervently. Nothing sounded better than riding the rest of the race out in comfortable anonymity. 

_


	8. Stage 18: in which Romain goes viral, stops for a photo opportunity, and makes an announcement

(Thursday 16h July 2020) 

His DS had cleared Romain to tell the rest of the team about his upcoming move, and he'd planned on doing so the previous night. But after he'd fallen asleep during his massage and almost again over dinner, he'd decided it would have to wait. 

At least that had been his plan. But when he'd checked his phone in the morning, he'd realised that he had something more urgent to handle first: a roadside fan he hadn’t even noticed had caught the whole incident with Moscon on camera. 

Horrified, Romain watched as in the looped gif Moscon shoved him viciously to the ground over and over again. It seemed the whole world had taken him to be some kind of frail victim, and to his complete mortification, he looked like one. The angle of the shot was perfect to show the way his head had smacked against the ground, and the long smear of blood left on the barrier by his hip. 

His social media had been flooded by friends and fans and seemingly half the peloton. After glancing at the first overwrought message of support Romain groaned audibly and skipped the rest, going to the only Instagram story he really cared about. 

Warren hadn't said much: their rules meant he couldn't. But he'd posted a photo of Moscon with _Shameful_ written across it in a red scrawl. Romain wished he could reply saying he was fine, but he at least knew that unlike the rest of the world, Warren wouldn't be imagining him as weak and fragile. With a sigh he messaged his parents, who also knew better but were bound to worry anyway, and then went to face the music over breakfast. 

The rest of the team were almost as bad. He had to retell the whole story from the beginning, and by the end he'd utterly failed to convince anyone that it was just a normal racing incident. Which on the one hand, it wasn't – Moscon was dangerous, and being sent home was better than he deserved. Romain knew in his heart that if it'd been Warren that Moscon had pushed that way, so close to a sheer drop onto bare rock, he'd have been convinced the Ineos rider deserved to be banned for life. And yet he was _fine_ , and it was infuriating to be treated as though overnight he'd become delicate and in need of protection. 

By the time he got down to the start line he was fuming. For the first time in days the media had wanted to talk to him, and although he'd said _no comment_ as neutrally as he could manage, he could tell by their calculated sympathy that he was about to figure across the globe as a helpless victim of Ineos's aggression. Half the peloton had come over to express their support, and if he inched any further away he'd be off the road altogether. 

At last they rolled out into the neutralised section, and Romain instantly began moving up to the front. He didn't want to go in the breakaway – realistically, he felt too exhausted to stick it out for a whole day – but anything was better than yet one more person's pity. He'd almost made his way up to the red car when Bernal came over. Romain braced himself for quite a different kind of reaction, but Bernal reached out and patted him gently on the arm. 

“For Gianni, I apologise,” he said urgently, looking up at Romain with huge worried eyes. “He wasn't acting for the team. Before he was sent home, I told him he is _wicked_.” 

“Um,” Romain said, a little blindsided. He was no fan of Ineos, and never would be, and if Moscon was a terrible human being, he was also a product of Ineos's marginal-gains-at-any-cost philosophy. Yet Bernal was no more responsible for their team strategy than Pierre was for AG2R's. And besides, he was just a kid, and seemingly a nice kid too. Romain had been that team leader who'd supposedly had older teammates answering to him, and he knew all too well how difficult it could be. “It's not your fault,” he said. “And I'm not hurt. He couldn't have known I'd fall over my own bike.” 

Bernal took a little more reassuring than that, but by the time the flag dropped, they'd shaken hands perfectly amicably. It was probably the longest interaction Romain had had with any of Ineos's riders, apart from stilted podium-top embraces, and he had to concede that perhaps they weren't all such corporate clones as he'd always thought. Bernal wasn't his new best friend, but Romain wouldn't make the mistake again of assuming he and his team were interchangeable Skybots. 

The day's plan was that two of the team would go in the break, with the rest holding back to pace Pierre on both the 2000m+ climbs. Their DS was expecting the attacks to come early rather than late, and with Bernal only 18s behind Pierre on GC, it was important that everyone gave their utmost to defend his 4th place. 

But when the flag dropped, over half the GC contenders attacked, and suddenly there wasn't so much a breakaway as there was a GC group with the rest of the peloton trying to catch them. Romain tried his best to stay with Pierre, but after the stresses of the previous day he was quickly out the back once the road turned upwards. He wasn't thrilled, but he couldn't do anything to help Pierre from behind, so without the pressure of worrying about his own performance he settled down to climb at his own pace. 

Separated from the GC contenders as he was, to his relief barely anyone by the side of the road recognised him. It was almost like a training ride, albeit with much more screaming going on, and as the road curved back and forth across the mountain he began to pass other riders. Half way up the climb he caught up to Lutsenko, and by the time they reached the summit the two of them had made it on to the back of a big group, although Romain was too busy trying to breathe to work out who was in it. 

He'd been on enough altitude training camps to know that he wasn't actually going to die from lack of oxygen, no matter what it felt like. He'd been told enough times by team coaches that he was one of the fortunate few whose body could naturally adapt well to lower oxygen levels. Altitude was supposed to be, if never easy, at least more bearable for him than it was for many others. And yet as Romain gasped for air he wondered for the millionth time why exactly he'd decided to devote his life to such a painful and absurd pursuit. 

At last they crossed the summit and began to descend, and with every hairpin the air got richer again. As Romain's breath came more easily he realised that he was in a very assorted group of chasers, although there were so many Astana jerseys at the front of the line that he suspected Fuglsang at least was there. Lutsenko began to make his way forward through the group to join them, and Romain stayed on his wheel. 

Lutsenko went straight to the front, then glanced over, raising his eyebrows. Romain made a _wait_ gesture, then got on the radio to his DS. He wanted to help, but his first duty was to Pierre and the team. His DS reported that Pierre was with the GC group, but he was down to just Benoît to pace him. So Romain had better help Astana chase, so he could get up to Pierre as soon as possible. 

Romain had his doubts about how much use he could possibly be by the time he got there, but he'd been given his orders, so he took his place behind Lutsenko. Along with the rest of Astana he took his turns on the front, and the gap to the GC group began to tumble. The group had swollen to perhaps thirty riders by the end of the long descent, but once the road began climbing again they all dropped away again, until Romain was alone with Astana. 

The road turned away from the cliff edge, plunging into a long tunnel, and Romain blinked as he pulled his sunglasses off. He'd often enough descended through tunnels, but it always felt a little weird to be climbing in one. It seemed almost chilly compared to the baking heat outside, and shockingly silent without the cheering crowds, as though for a minute someone had pressed the mute button on the whole race. 

When they burst back out into the sunlight, the glare dazzled his eyes. Romain had barely got his sunglasses back on when he spotted Benoît standing disconsolately by the side of the road with about three quarters of a bike. 

It had been years since Romain had been the one to hand over his bike to a teammate. He'd usually been the one taking, rather than giving. But of the two of them, Benoît had had the legs to stay with the GC group. He was far more likely than Romain to be able to successfully chase back up to them. He swung sharply over, detaching his bike computer as he scrambled off, and thrust his bike into Benoît's hands. 

“But – ” Benoît began to protest. 

“Better legs,” Romain said urgently. “ _Go_!” 

He pushed Benoît off, then turned to the shattered bike, wondering what exactly had happened. The number on the back indicated it was Pierre's, so presumably Benoît had already exchanged bikes once before. There was nothing Romain could do to fix the frame, so until either his team car or a neutral service vehicle came along, he was stuck. 

Belatedly, he realised he ought to let his DS know what had happened. He tried his radio, but with no response, so presumably the team car was out of range. It felt almost surreal to be taking a break in the middle of a race, even if it wasn't by choice, and Romain wondered what, if anything, he ought to be doing. But before he'd come to any firm conclusion, a group of roadside fans had rushed over. 

After a minute or two, the neutral service car came along, much to Romain's relief. He hadn't minded posing for some photos, but no one had yet asked him about Moscon, and he intended to keep it that way. He was given a new bike, and was soon on his way again. 

As he climbed, he could see a surprisingly large group ahead. Romain eventually caught up to them as they passed under the 2km to go arch, and from then on it was a smooth ride to the finish. He assumed that it was some sort of disappointed chase group who'd eased off their pace, but once he was over the line he realised that most of the GC favourites seemed to have been there. He made his way back to the team bus to warm down, and asked Pierre what had happened. 

“We crashed in the tunnel,” Pierre said, rolling his eyes. “I'm not sure who came down first, but I ended up underneath Dumoulin, and while we were sorting ourselves out the camera motorbike ran my bike over.” 

Romain winced. That was definitely going to mean the team would put in a protest, as though they hadn't been involved in enough controversy already. “You're okay, though?” 

“Yeah, just a couple of bruises; nothing serious,” Pierre said. “But I was _sure_ that Bernal was going to attack when he realised, so Benoît gave me his bike. Only once everyone was up and moving again and we counted heads, the only person missing was Quintana – oh, and he'd got your Warren with him, but no one thought about that. Apparently they avoided the crash altogether, so they were two minutes up the road by that point. Well, he's six minutes back on GC or something, so he was no threat there, and I guess everyone figured the stage win was long gone. So there were a few feints, but basically we all just marked each other till the finish. We were practically doing track stands at one point.” 

“So who won?” Romain said, hope sparking into life. 

“Quintana, I suppose,” Pierre shrugged. “Your Warren would've almost had to give him the win, right?” 

Romain couldn't help but acknowledge the truth of that, although he hoped it had gone otherwise. When he finally got to check his phone it was just as Pierre had said, although he was relieved to see that Quintana had had a decent gap over Warren on the line. That suggested that he'd won fair and square, rather than Warren being forced to give up on a win for the sake of the team. 

That was literally his job, just as it was soon going to be Romain's, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Neither of them were such prolific winners of anything that they could afford to be giving victories away, and selfishly Romain wanted to see Warren be the one standing joyfully on the podium. But the race was what it was, and at least the two of them were equal on one second place each. 

After dinner that night, once everyone had finished roundly abusing the camera bikes, he finally made his announcement to the rest of the team that he'd be leaving in two weeks. The reaction, however, wasn't quite what he'd hoped for. Romain certainly hadn't wanted everyone to weep at his feet and beg him not to leave, but nor had he foreseen a response of muted, polite support. 

He didn't put the pieces together until he was getting into bed. The rest of the team had reacted as though it wasn't a big deal... and Romain suddenly realised that to most of them, perhaps it wasn't. Nearly all of them had changed teams multiple times, if perhaps not in mid-season, so it must have seemed rather routine to them. 

It still felt like a huge, scary challenge to Romain, and that in itself was a clear sign that it was a step he needed to take. But he was only three days away from Paris: all he had to do was to help stave off Bernal for another two mountain stages, and then he could leave with his head held high. 

_


	9. Stage 19: in which AG2R have a disagreement about tactics, and Romain finds his motivation

(Friday 17th July 2020) 

The weather forecast had been predicting scattered, heavy storms all week, and although thus far the race had dodged them, overnight the air turned heavy and sultry. Romain woke up soaked in sweat after a night spent tossing and turning, and he wasn't the only one with tired eyes at the breakfast table. 

The spectre of last year's landslides hung over the race, and the whole team were on edge. Pierre was uncharacteristically snappish, and Romain hoped with all his heart that they could just get through the day with no problems. When the flag dropped, nothing happened for almost a whole kilometre, as though everyone was taking a deep breath. 

But finally a breakaway tentatively formed, and none of the GC teams seemed to object to its composition. As they pulled away from the main field, Romain finally allowed himself to relax a little. Unlike the day before, it didn't look like being a full on GC battle from kilometre zero, so hopefully they could at least make it over the first climb and onto the high plateau before the attacks started to come. 

And then Bernal launched off the front with Froome, and all hell broke loose. 

As the person immediately above him on GC, it was Pierre's position that came under threat first. Had Romain been making the call on the road, he'd have let the gap grow until it became Trek and FDJ's responsibility to chase, but it was Pierre's first time as leader in a Grand Tour, and he was clearly caught in a blind panic. Romain knew that feeling all too well, so he gritted his teeth and got on the front with the rest of the team. 

The road snaked its way upwards, and they managed to hold the gap at below 18s for a while, but as they climbed towards 2000m one by one the team fell away. Romain was gasping for breath, and yet he knew that Bernal had lived at higher altitudes all his life, so would presumably be having no difficulty. And as Froome and Bernal crested the summit onto the plateau, the gap began dramatically increasing. It stretched to 30s before at last Trek came to the front, and Romain gratefully retreated to sit in the wheels and get what little respite he could. 

Someone sprinted past him as the summit approached, and Romain glanced hurriedly round, wondering if it was an attack he needed to shut down. But it was only De Marchi, still desperately chasing mountains points, and Romain spared a fraction of a second to hope he could keep the lead he had worked so hard to build. 

He knew, none better, that the mountains jersey could be snatched at the last minute by a GC contender. His own victory last year had almost enabled him to pass 2019 off as a successful Tour, yet he was guiltily aware of how little he'd really deserved it. True, he'd finished with most points, but he'd gathered them almost by accident on only two stages, in the process depriving Tim Wellens of the jersey he'd been defending for the entire race. Romain couldn't change what he'd done last year, but De Marchi deserved better than for someone like Romain to do that to him. 

Eventually they reached the summit, but although the road flattened out the going was no easier. Froome and Bernal had gained almost a minute, and it felt as if the whole chase was in slow motion. Romain's legs were like lead, and no matter how deep the breaths he was taking, there wasn't enough air getting to his lungs. 

And yet, when he'd regained enough energy to lift his head and look around, he had to acknowledge his body's ability to cope with altitude. Presumably all of the GC contenders had been at altitude camps before the Tour, as it was now standard practice. Yet although Romain was suffering as much as everyone else, he was still riding at a reasonable pace. But all around him people were falling behind, and to his amazement Mollema was at the back of the group, and very clearly struggling. 

He looked over to Pierre, nodding significantly over his shoulder, and silently asking what Pierre wanted him to do. But before Pierre had had much chance to do more than glance backwards, Nibali went off the front. 

It wasn't exactly an attack – the air was too thin at these altitudes for anyone to have that kind of energy apart from Bernal, and apparently Froome – but more a steady lifting of the pace. Romain did spare a moment to wonder whether Trek's DS had told him to go, or if Nibali had simply taken the opportunity to grab the yellow jersey for himself, but either way, the GC group was beginning to split in two. 

Romain couldn't sprint to follow, but he upped his cadence a bit, checking that Pierre was still with him, and they began to chase. It was like riding a TTT underwater, as with an unspoken agreement born from desperation the six or seven riders that came with them each took turns pulling on the front. 

The plateau wasn't entirely flat, and although Nibali was an excellent descender, so was Romain. It took an agonising 7km, but at last they caught Nibali on one of the rolling downslopes, and when Romain glanced over his shoulder, there were scattered riders trailing behind, but no sign of the yellow jersey. 

That was good news for Pierre, of course, who'd automatically move up to 3rd on GC if they could maintain that gap to Mollema. Or he would do without Bernal being off the front, but thankfully everyone in the group had an incentive to chase him down, whether to defend their own position on GC or simply from the mutual solidarity of everyone wanting to see a team other than Ineos win. 

As the road snaked back and forth, Romain began catching glimpses of a single Ineos jersey up ahead. That put new urgency into everyone, because if Bernal had dropped even Froome, he must be flying towards the finish. And yet to Romain's incredulity, when they finally caught up he saw that it wasn't Froome they'd been chasing: it was Bernal. 

He couldn't understand how that was possible. But although he didn't appear to be injured, Bernal's head had dropped, and he was too clearly struggling for it to be a bluff. Besides, that wasn't Ineos's style: they preferred to crush a race beneath an overwhelming display of dominance rather than to trick others into riding for them. Romain could only assume that he'd gone out so hard because he'd known he hadn't got good legs, in an attempt to get too far ahead to be caught before he cracked. It was a faint consolation to know that Bernal wasn't invincible, and that perhaps his youth had caught up with him after all. 

And it changed the race situation, of course. Romain got on the radio to check the time gaps, and Froome was 3m20s behind Pierre, and 3m29s behind Nibali. It seemed unlikely that even he could take that kind of time back on what remained of the stage, but Romain wasn't prepared to take that chance. Too many times over the years he'd underestimated Ineos, and every time he'd come off the worst from the encounter. Nibali could sit up if he wanted, but Romain intended to keep on chasing. 

Except that when he looked over his shoulder, Pierre too had slowed down. Romain rolled his eyes, and let himself drift back to Pierre's side, and said, “come _on_ , we can still catch him.” 

“No way, it's too close,” Pierre said. 

“ _What's_ too close?” Romain said impatiently. 

“The time gap,” Pierre said, having apparently made the same calculations as Romain had. “There's no way Trek can hold it at just enough to keep him off yellow without defending my position too. Come on, man, it's nine seconds between Nibali and me. _Nobody_ can control a gap that precisely. And if they do, well, I'll go then. But I need to save my legs for tomorrow. Let Nibali ride, and Froome can take the stage win for all I care.” 

“That is such a stupid plan,” Romain protested. “If it were anyone else, okay, _maybe_ , but this is Froome. Do you want him to cruise into yellow _again_ because no one could be bothered to stop him? Nibali can do what he likes, and I'm sure he will, but we need to keep chasing.” 

“Have you _looked at_ the weather?” Pierre said, gesturing up at the truly ugly looking clouds. “Apparently it's pouring at the finish line. Froome's not going to take back 3 minutes riding into a thunderstorm. If we just stay in the group, Trek'll police it. That's _their_ job. Right at the moment I'm on the podium, so if I go, everyone will follow. All I'll do is make everyone ride at an infernal pace and gain nothing. Who cares if Froome is riding himself up into fifth or sixth?” 

“Well, I do,” Romain said hotly. “Fifth or sixth today, and winning the thing tomorrow. You won't be feeling like that when he's got minutes on the rest of the group, and you're the one down in sixth place. We'll worry about Nibali and the rest later, but I'm telling you Froome is too dangerous to let him get away. And I ought to know!” 

Pierre gave him a long, annoyed look. “I'm your team leader, and I'm going to stay right here on Nibali's wheel. But _you_ are going back to the team car to get me my rain jacket. _Now_ , please,” he added, and Romain felt himself flush scarlet at being so publicly put in his place. 

He didn't trust himself to speak, but thankfully the team car handed out both his rain jacket and Pierre's without commentary. 

“Thanks,” Pierre said tersely when he handed it over. “Now get back in the group and shut up. Or go and waste your energy chasing Froome if you want to.” 

“You know what? Maybe I will!” Romain snapped, suddenly angry beyond bearing. Everything about this Tour had been a nightmare, from beginning to end, and no matter that he was planning to target different goals in the future, he hadn't got to be a GC contender by being a tactical idiot. Maybe he couldn't time trial, and maybe he wouldn't ever podium at a race again, but no one would ever be able to accuse him of sitting back and letting a race just slide out of his grasp like Pierre was apparently about to. 

As he accelerated away from the group, he was aware that someone was trying to follow him, but Romain was too furious to wait for anyone unless it had been Warren. And it wasn't, it was Yates, and Romain wasn't ready to look any of his rivals in the eye. He'd never realised before that his ego was particularly fragile, but it was one thing to go back to the team car because, like Van Garderen, he was doing his best to support the team. It was quite another to be ordered to do so in front of every team leader, so that Pierre could remind him and everyone else of just how he'd fallen from grace. 

Staying away from Yates gave him sufficient motive to keep riding hard, and by the time he reached the leading edge of the rain, he was alone on the road. Almost literally, as well as metaphorically, because as he pulled his rain jacket on he saw what few fans had made it up to the plateau fleeing from the torrential downpour into their waiting camper vans. 

That was just fine by Romain, who was in no mood to be stared at by anyone. He jammed his sunglasses as far up on the bridge of his nose as he could, to keep the streaming rain out of his eyes, and let all of his frustration and shame and disappointment power him onwards. He wasn't really thinking about trying to chase Froome, and he definitely wasn't thinking about defending Pierre's position in the GC. Right then all he wanted was the push and pull of hard working muscles, the catch in his breath, and the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. Far better to let the exertion drive every other thought out of his head. 

So it came as a surprise when he actually spotted Froome up ahead. Romain couldn't show Pierre that he wasn't to be underestimated, because he'd screwed up his own GC career so badly that he was leaving the team rather than deal with the fallout. He couldn't show his DS, his team, or his fans that he wasn't a complete and utter failure. But maybe, just maybe, he could show Froome what it felt like to lose. 

Froome was down in his sickeningly perfect TT position, but Romain didn't care. He knew there was a descent just before the finish, and even if Froome had been on a motorcycle, Romain _was going to catch him_. 

And he did, sweeping past on the descent, entirely heedless of the wet roads. Naturally it was incredibly dangerous, but Romain had already crashed twice thanks to a dog and a barrier, and he was in no mood to be cautious. If he were daring the slick roads to do their worst, then it was the roads that backed down before his challenge. When he looked behind Froome was hunched down on his top tube, but he wasn't picking the same fast lines Romain was. Froome was playing it safe, and that was going to be his undoing. 

It wasn't until Romain had actually crossed the line, too busy looking over his shoulder to see Froome's face at the moment of defeat, that it occurred to him that he'd won the stage. As a swarm of photographers and team staff rushed over, Romain's bad mood evaporated, and feeling rather silly, he started to laugh. He could only imagine what Warren would have to say to him. 

Only he didn't have to wait, because a minute or two later Warren came hurtling over the line, grinning as broadly as though he'd won the stage himself. Warren had got third place, and he had every right to be heartily disappointed at once again being so close to a stage win and again missing out. And yet it was clear that he was feeling nothing but pride in Romain's achievement. Romain couldn't get anywhere near him, what with the press of cameras and microphones being shoved into his face, but just one glimpse of Warren's blinding smile was enough to banish the last of his discontent. 

Most of the interviewers who talked to him seemed a little bewildered as to what exactly AG2R's tactics for the day had been. Romain kept his peace, and just let it be implied that his goal had always been the stage win. When he finally got the chance to check the results he was relieved to see that Pierre was still in 4th, even though just as Romain had predicted Froome had ridden himself up the GC, and in fact into second place. Pierre had lost some time, it was true, but as far as Romain was concerned that served him right. 

And he was determined to maintain that attitude, at least until Pierre came over once Romain had been up to the podium. 

“So, um,” Pierre said, and then started laughing. “If I'd known a few insults would really get you into race mode, I'd have started doing it years ago!” 

“If you ever tell _anyone_ that worked, I may have to kill you,” Romain said, and he was only exaggerating a little bit. 

“Are you kidding me?” Pierre said, raising an eyebrow. “I can just see the headlines now. BRILLIANT STAGE WIN FOR BARDET; LATOUR A JERK. My lips are sealed!” 

“I guess it might come across that way,” Romain said, and laughed, and everything was alright between them again. 

“So, Froome,” Pierre said, and made a face. “How can he possibly keep pulling this sort of thing off? He's only a minute behind Nibali.” 

“He's only a minute ahead of you,” Romain pointed out. “And literally _everyone_ has a motive to work together tomorrow.” 

“I for one welcome our new Trek overlord?” Pierre suggested. 

“Oh come on, like you'd rather see Ineos win it _again_!” Romain said. “It might as well be Nibali as anyone else – and you know, Thibaut's still in third, and you're only eleven seconds behind him. It's not over till it's over.” 

_


	10. Stage 20 Part 1: in which Romain is honest with himself and the team, and he and Warren take their chance

(Saturday 18h July 2020) 

Romain was still buzzing when he woke up the next morning. It'd been two and a half years since he'd last stood on top of a podium, and he'd almost convinced himself that he'd never do so again. But as he'd taken his bouquet of flowers and smiled and waved to the crowd, he'd felt the most free he had in years. 

It wasn't just that he felt he'd finally given something back to the team. It wasn't just that for once he wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing he'd have to try to defend a GC position that would inevitably slip from his grasp. It wasn't just that he felt vindicated in his change in focus, and his decision to move to Arkéa. 

But for the first time in what felt like forever the overwhelming pressure inside his head had almost disappeared. Romain had given up all his GC ambitions, and got a stage win, and no one had turned round and told him he was a failure. No one had suggested he was a second-rate competitor because he'd focused on the stage, and not the GC. The team had celebrated, just like they had for Pierre, and Romain had forgotten what it felt like to be the one everyone was cheering, not gnawing his heart out in the corner in a mixture of jealousy and heart-stopping dread that it would never again be him. 

He'd been more than a little ashamed of himself, later, when he'd thought of how wholeheartedly thrilled everyone else had been for him. But for the first time in a long time Romain had experienced what it felt like not to be continually beating himself up over every mistake he made, and he was determined to enjoy it for more than one evening before he slipped back into that way of thinking again. Which was, perhaps, something that Arkéa's sports psychologist was going to want to talk to him about. 

Romain was in no way looking forward to having that conversation. But it was just possible that his future DS had a point, and he needed to. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this euphoria bubbling up inside him, or the feeling that he had the best job in the world. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt he _deserved_ to be in the position he was. 

And it was true: he hadn't always been the best teammate he could have been. But today was the last time he'd be riding for AG2R, and he was determined to end by doing his best for them. So at the team briefing, he volunteered to get into the break again. 

“Sure you're not too tired after yesterday?” his DS said doubtfully. 

“I'm good,” Romain said, and he couldn't seem to keep the smile off his face. “I'm _great_!” 

“Hmm, well, we'll have to make sure _you_ don't bonk completely when that wears off,” his DS said wryly. “Make sure you've got some extra food – but alright, you can go in the break.” 

The day's plan seemed to come down to one of two contingencies. After the past few days, it was inconceivable that anyone would have the energy to make it a GC battle from the flag drop. So it might come down to one big stalemate, where everyone rode to defend the positions they already had, in which case Pierre would stay on Nibali's wheel. If it were possible for him to take 11s on Thibaut and move up to the podium, he would, but it was more important to defend a solid 4th than to gamble for 3rd and slip down the GC. 

Alternatively, and his DS felt it much more likely, Thibaut or Froome would attack on the penultimate climb. Although it wasn't especially long, the gradient varied wildly, and anyone gaining a significant gap would be able to carry that down the long descent and onto the climb to the finish. They spent a long time discussing various possibilities, but ultimately it all boiled down to Pierre trying to follow the attack if that made sense, and letting Trek chase it down if it didn't. Either way, Romain would drop back to help him if required. 

For the first time since the Tour had begun, he was excited to get going. It seemed so ludicrous that a single win could've changed his perspective that dramatically, but it had. Sure, Romain was tired: he'd just spent the last three weeks riding round France. But everyone was weary, so they were all in the same situation. And beneath the fatigue he was keyed up and ready to go; everything he had focused on one last effort. 

When the flag dropped about half the peloton surged forward. It took half an hour before a break finally went, and when it did, it contained a quite ridiculous 47 riders. Everyone from disappointed GC contenders to domestiques being sent up the road were represented, and Romain had to smile as he wondered which category he now fitted into. But although there were enough riders to hold the rest of the peloton off indefinitely, the group was barely working together, as too many conflicting objectives clashed with each other. 

Under normal circumstances Romain would have zero chance of escaping 46 other riders, no matter who they were. But there was so _little_ cohesion, and there _were_ those two climbs, after all. And maybe it was a completely unrealistic goal that he could get two stage wins in two days, but once the thought had come into his mind he couldn't quite suppress it. 

But more important was his resolution to be a better team player, and he wasn't going to do anything which would hurt Pierre. So before simply launching off the front he called up the team car, and suggested to his DS that he see if he could draw out a small group. The reception was so crackly that he could barely hear, and Romain hoped fervently that they weren't riding towards a storm. 

It took multiple repetitions, but eventually Romain gathered that so many riders were trying to chase across that rather than a peloton and a breakaway there were countless scattered groups on the road. Nans Peters and Alexis Vuillermoz were making their way towards him, and once they were safely in Romain's group he was free to attack. 

“Nans … that extra food … you,” his DS said, and even through the hiss and static, Romain could hear the wry amusement in his voice. “… your rain jacket. Take … go … and for heaven's sake, when you _do_ bonk …” 

“...Yes?” Romain said, but all he could hear after that was the occasional broken syllable lost in the crackling of distant thunder. He wished he'd been able to hear more of his DS's instructions, but the one thing which was clear was that he needed to wait for Nans and Alexis. Romain drifted to the back of the group, and as he looked behind he could see he'd at least heard correctly that multiple chase groups were trying to come across. One was just making the junction, and although there were no AG2R jerseys, near the back of it was – 

“Hi,” Warren said, his smile warm as the first spring day after a long and dreary winter. “I didn't realise you were here too.” 

“How about,” Romain said, as with perfect clarity he suddenly knew what the two of them could do together, “we try and get you the stage win?” 

“What do you think I'm up here for?” Warren said, flashing him a grin. “I mean, there's a faint chance Nairo will try something, in which case he'll need me, but I doubt it. He's so cooked after that stage win that I've got a free role today. But I _suppose_ you can come with me if you want.” 

“I've not got anything better to do,” Romain said, grinning back. “I told you I'd ride for you. And I guess same situation for me with Pierre. He's not planning to attack, but I might have to drop back if things kick off. But I've got to wait for Nans and Alexis before I can – oh, here they are now.” 

“My sacred trust is fulfilled,” said Nans, pulling a truly absurd amount of energy bars and gels out of his back pockets and handing them over to Romain. “Although rather you than me trying to eat all that lot.” 

“Hungry?” Warren said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I'll tell you on the way,” Romain said as quellingly as possible. “Can you two raise the team car? They were trying to tell me to wait for you, but all I got after that was static.” 

“There's thunderstorms up in the mountains,” Alexis said, passing Romain his rain jacket. “Not on the race route yet thankfully, but close by. No one's got any kind of signal over more than a few hundred metres. So we're setting up a sort of radio relay – I mean, there's no point all of us being up the road if Pierre's in trouble way back but we don't know, right?” 

“Sure,” Romain agreed. 

“So I'm going to sit on the back of this group, with Nans at the front,” Alexis explained. “So long as I can pick up Mathias, and he can pick up Benoît and Pierre, and – ” 

“But I'm still okay to go, right?” Romain said. Now he'd committed to the idea of getting the win for Warren, it felt like every second spent chatting was a second that could have been spent building a buffer against the GC chase he knew would be coming. 

“Well, you _could_ wait ten minutes while we get a message to the car and back,” said Nans. “But there's that 16% section coming up, and if you're going to attack, that's the place to go. There's nothing whatsoever doing in the GC group at the moment according to Benoît. When they do go, we all know they're going to go completely crazy, so you'll still end up riding for Pierre most likely.” 

“You think you're the first guy who wanted to show his new team what a good choice they'd made?” Alexis said, and laughed. “We get it. Just don't make it _too_ obvious you're riding for Arkéa today, right?” 

Romain wasn't sure if they were acting out of a residual loyalty to his former place as team leader, a misplaced hope that he had two stage wins in him, or even out of friendship. But either way, he was deeply grateful, and he felt more than a little guilty that he wasn't doing it for his current team, or even his future one, but for Warren. 

“I...” he began, and stopped. The two of them deserved his honesty. “It is that a bit, but – I – I mean, _we_ – ” 

“Or go and hold hands up the road, if that's it,” Nans said, grinning. “Only don't really, or you'll get us penalised for a hand-sling. Anyway, go if you're going!” 

“I'll keep in touch,” Romain said with a grateful smile, before he and Warren began moving up through the group. Thankfully there was so little co-ordination that their steady progress wasn't noticeable, and by the time they'd reached the front he had a reasonably clear idea of who was present. They definitely didn't want to take Valverde or Yates with them, and Warren had deep reservations about Kruijswijk, who he'd seen looking disturbingly strong as he chased over. 

At the front of the group was De Marchi, still honouring his polka dots, although he'd mathematically secured them the previous day. It couldn't hurt to have an extra pair of good legs, so Romain drifted over to him and in a low voice explained his plan. De Marchi was game, and so as soon as they were on the steep section the three of them attacked as hard as they could. 

The majority of the group were more focused on the interests of their distant team leaders than on the stage win, so they easily secured an initial gap. To Romain's annoyance Yates jumped onto his wheel, although the only other person who did was Gianluca Brambilla, clearly positioning himself to ride for Nibali later. But if it came down to it, he had faith that Warren could outsprint both of them, and they had to make it to the finish before that could become an issue. The five of them needed to work together until then. 

Although Romain was as fatigued as everyone else, underneath that he still felt infused by the same wild energy from the previous day. He was climbing like he was on wings, and all the shouts and cheers from the crowd seemed only to lift him higher, rather than filling him with the usual self-loathing. 

Warren took one look at him, and without the slightest degree of subtlety said, “eat.” 

“What?” Romain said, his thoughts soaring back down from the distant finish line. 

“ _Eat_ ,” Warren said, somehow managing to spare the breath to talk. “You're carrying enough food for twenty. So firstly you don't want to be carrying that weight, and secondly, you're going to bonk before we get to the top of _this_ climb if you keep going this hard.” 

Romain rolled his eyes, but he also ate a protein bar. He didn't _feel_ as though he were about to run out of energy. It felt as though for so long he'd been riding almost crushed by the weight of everything that he was carrying, that without it he could almost float up the mountain. 

“Yes,” Warren said, when the gradient eased off and he tried to convey this feeling. “I get that, and of course I'm glad, but that doesn't mean you throw your tactical brain out the window! You might _feel_ you can fly, but you can't really. Just keep eating, brave heart.” 

Romain couldn't really argue with his logic, so he worked his way through a couple more bars. He caught Brambilla giving him a longing look, and held one out. 

“No, really,” he said, when Brambilla looked as though he felt he ought to refuse. “I've got enough food for a week.” Brambilla raised an eyebrow at that, but he also took the energy bar. 

As they approached the summit, Romain was at the front, but it didn't seem right for him to lead over it. The five of them weren't currently racing against each other, so it made no difference to the race situation, and this was De Marchi's moment. So Romain waved him forwards, and the four of them dropped back a little, letting De Marchi enjoy the cheers of the crowd at the top. 

Romain had another motive in mind beyond altruism, however. Whilst Yates and Brambilla were distracted, he eased back down to Warren and said in a low voice, “go on the descent?” 

“Okay,” Warren said, tightening his shoes. “You lead. We should be able to shake off everyone else. But please remember I'm not as good a descender as you are – we're too close to Paris to end up in the back of an ambulance.” 

“I'm not going to take chances with you on my wheel,” Romain huffed, a little put out that Warren would imagine that he could. The five of them regrouped after the summit, and half a kilometre later when the road finally began to slope down, he sprinted away to hit the descent. 


	11. Stage 20 Part 2: Three minutes and fifty seconds

By the time the road emerged from the trees and Romain got a look at the sky ahead it was too late: he was fully committed. All the time they'd been climbing the dense wood had hidden the towering blue-black clouds, lit from within by flashes of lightning. But there was no help for it, because whether they were caught by the storm or not, if they didn't keep pressing on they would definitely be caught by Yates, De Marchi and Brambilla. 

With a glance behind to make sure Warren was still with him, Romain began taking faster lines than he'd planned to. He didn't dare push things the way he would have done if he were alone, but they were evidently riding straight into the heart of the storm. Climbing on wet roads was comparatively risk-free, but descending on them was dangerous for anyone, no matter how skilled they were. The safest thing seemed to be to get Warren as far down the climb as possible before they hit the rain, so that they would then have the luxury of being able to descend more slowly. 

Every time he glanced behind he could see the fearsome concentration on Warren's face, and his white-knuckled grip on his handlebars. Romain hated putting him in that position, but unfortunately it was too late to change plans. They could sit up and wait for the rest of the breakaway, of course, but that would throw away Warren's best chance at the stage win, and they would _still_ have to descend on wet roads. So he pushed on, trying his best to strike a balance between safety and speed, and after twelve excruciatingly long minutes they reached the valley floor still in the dry. 

“Well that wasn't fun,” Warren said with an explosive sigh of relief. “You do know that half the way down there wasn't a barrier? I _need_ to work harder on my descending.” 

“Sorry,” Romain said, pulling his rain jacket on. “But we needed to – ” 

“It was the right decision,” Warren said, and laughed as he shook the tension out of his hands. “Just – this is why I won't go on rollercoasters with you.” 

“No adrenaline, no fun,” Romain said, and grinned. “Besides, you're still in one piece, _and_ we've dropped the others. So jacket on, and let's get going.” 

Romain tried his radio, but all he got was static, and Warren's reception was no better. Apart from a single camera bike behind they were alone on the road. No one appeared to show them a chalkboard, so they had no way of knowing what the time gaps were, whether back to De Marchi and the others or to the GC group. But it seemed safest to assume that their advantage was minimal, so the two of them hurried on as though they were doing the world's smallest TTT. 

It felt so much like their usual off-season training rides that all the roadside fans seemed oddly out of place to Romain. They swapped turns on the front every kilometre, and as they approached the foot of the next climb the sky grew darker and darker, until he almost needed headlights to see where they were going. As they passed the next marker and Warren came to the front, Romain noticed he was shivering in the cold wind. 

“Now who needs to eat!” he said, holding out one of the bars from his still-bulging pockets. 

“Ew, pineapple,” Warren said unenthusiastically. “Got anything nicer?” 

“Dig around and have a look,” Romain said, before remembering what Nans had said about hand-slings. “No, actually, you'd better not just in case the race jury are watching and think I'm literally towing you. Let me – okay, so I've got peanut, blueberry and oat, lemon, caffeine and... mango? I think this one is strawberry and – ” 

“Blueberry'll do,” Warren said. “Thanks. But watching how? Didn't you notice we lost the camera bike?” 

“No?” Romain said, looking around. After the stage 12 accident, the motorbikes had been more than normally cautious, and he'd got used to them respectfully trailing groups rather than motorpacing them from the front. “For how long?” 

“Don't ask me, I wasn't keeping track,” Warren said, shoving the last of the bar into his mouth and tucking the wrapper away in his jersey pockets. “But they definitely weren't there when we went through that last village, because I nearly took the wrong turn on that roundabout.” 

“I _knew_ you'd got lost there!” Romain said, and laughed. “Nice recovery, though. I wish we knew what the time gap was.” 

“It's got to be close,” Warren said. “Why else would they go back – we're leading the race at the moment.” 

“I suppose we _are_ leading the race,” Romain said uneasily. “What if someone else launched before we did? With the radios out we might not even know.” 

“All we can do is keep on,” Warren said. “We ought to be able to catch Prudhomme's car if we really go for it, right? If we can get eyes on the red car, we'll know there's no one in front.” 

As they began climbing, the wind picked up even more, and Romain was deeply thankful they weren't on the descent. It buffeted them every time they came round a hairpin, and for once he was grateful for how closely the fans were lining the roadside, as it at least gave them partial shelter from the wind. 

“There!” Warren said suddenly, standing up on his pedals. “Look, there's the car. We _are_ at the front.” 

“Maybe we can ask _them_ what the time gap is,” Romain panted. “Why don't they slow down a bit? We can't possibly be getting any drafting effect _this_ far behind.” 

“You're getting old,” Warren said, and shot him a breathless grin. “Come on, we can – oh!” 

The rain swept across the road like a curtain, and it hit Romain as hard as if he were standing under the shower. The visibility dropped so suddenly he could barely make out Warren, let alone the car further ahead. Warren turned back and yelled something, but Romain couldn't hear anything over the rain. He gestured vaguely at his ear, and Warren made a face and carried on riding. 

As the pounding rain soaked its way under his rain jacket, it also drowned out any noise from the side of the road. Romain was suddenly reminded of riding through the tunnel, as once again the usual noises of the race were wiped away. All that existed for him was Warren's back wheel, and the few centimetres of wet road between them. As they pressed on through the storm the feeling came over him that it was an almost transcendent, timeless experience; racing stripped down to its barest essentials. 

Even above the sound of the rain, the thunder boomed all about them. As they swapped off turns at the front, Romain was looking directly at a dazzling bolt which hit a peak across the valley, and the brilliant after-image danced in front of his eyes for almost a kilometre. As they passed under the 5km to go banner hail began to be mixed in with the rain, and he winced as what felt like golf balls crashed down onto his unprotected back. 

Warren turned round and shouted something, but Romain couldn't make out what he was saying. He made a _what_ gesture, and Warren mimed taking shelter under the cliff edge. Romain was seriously tempted. Surely no one else would be pushing on in these conditions? In fact, it was as likely as not that the race had already been paused, if not cancelled altogether, and it was just that no one had been able to let them know. The hailstones only seemed to be getting bigger, and although Romain had signed up for a certain amount of pain, bruises on top of bruises hadn't been included. 

But that wasn't how races were won. Romain had determined to get Warren as far towards the stage win as he could, and it felt like a betrayal to give up now. Besides, there was no guarantee the hail wouldn't shift direction, or continue for an hour. The only real way out of the storm was to ride through it, and the faster the better, as each metre took them closer to the finish and shelter. 

He shook his head, and carried on riding. But just as he was beginning to weaken in his resolution, his fingers beginning to go numb from the continual stinging impacts, he realised suddenly that he could see the lights of the car ahead. Romain looked up for the first time in minutes, a deluge of icy water pouring out of his helmet and down his back, only to see the most extraordinary sight. 

The storm clouds had streamed away to vent their fury on the lower slopes, as the hail slackened off to little more than light drizzle. The race route was lined with camper vans and cars, but not one person was visible, all of them having been driven inside by the violence of the storm. The road was awash with water, and it was almost as though they were riding up a river. There was just the red car, the two of them, and the sudden silence, as loud in Romain's ears as the hail had been a minute before. 

“Wow,” Warren said, coming up beside him. “That was quite something. I think I'm going to need to get my ribs checked.” 

“Me too,” Romain said with a rueful chuckle, as he rubbed his bruised hands. “I suppose the helicopters were grounded in all that. I wonder whatever sort of view they're getting back home?” 

“Two blurs in the hail,” Warren said, shifting closer to the edge to look back down the road. “If that. Where _are_ the camera bikes? And they never sent us a chalkboard guy. I can't see _anyone_ back down the road.” 

“They've probably got better sense than to keep riding until that's over,” Romain retorted. 

“Well then,” Warren said with an anticipatory grin, “I guess _one_ of us is going to win this.” 

“Oh, you are _on_ ,” Romain said, swerving over to sit on Warren's wheel. He'd intended to work all day for Warren, so Warren could launch off the front of the break and try for his stage win. But if it came down to just the two of them and no one else, they would race it out. Not that he could often beat Warren in a straight sprint, and they both knew it, but he was certainly going to give it his best shot. It would have been an insult to Warren if Romain had just gifted him the stage win, the way he might have done to an anonymous breakaway companion. 

“Sure you don't want to come through?” Warren said over his shoulder. “I'll let you lead out the sprint. You'll be able to get at _least_ 5m head start on me.” 

“Thanks, but I'm just fine where I am,” Romain said, without budging. He knew his only chance was to come from behind. Even the red car pulled over to the side, letting the two of them proceed in advance to the finish. 

They passed under the red kite, and it was the weirdest stage finish Romain had ever raced. Not only were there no spectators visible, but half the barriers had fallen over, sagging at crazy angles into the road. They were easy enough to avoid with just the two of them, but he shuddered at the thought of what would have happened if it had been a full-on sprint, as unlikely as that was on a mountaintop. 

As they passed the 750m to go marker, Romain tightened his shoes. Warren was still riding at a reasonable pace, but glancing back over his shoulder constantly. 

At the 500m to go marker, Romain took a deep breath. If he didn't go soon he'd just be riding on Warren's wheel all the way to the line, which wasn't the finale anyone wanted, least of all him. But if he could wait to launch until 300m, and before Warren began his sprint, he _might_ have a chance. 

“Brave heart,” Warren said over his shoulder. The sunlight suddenly spilled through a gap in the clouds, and it outlined Warren with a golden glow against the dark sky. He looked like a Renaissance painting. 

“Mmm?” Romain said, his move to launch forgotten, as he wished with all his heart for a camera. 

“Catch me if you can,” Warren said with a grin that was positively feral, and then he was gone. Romain accelerated after him, knowing that the stage win was gone, but he was more pleased than he would have been to take it himself. The Tour which had started so painfully and cruelly had turned sweet at the end, and they'd both be riding into Paris with a victory to their names. As he crossed the line he couldn't help raising a hand in celebration of their joint achievements, and then he had his arms full of a jubilant Warren. 

“One all!” Warren said breathlessly. “I _knew_ I'd got you!” 

“One all!” Romain said, hugging him tightly. “Wasn't this the oddest finish _ever_?” 

“So long as there was a finish line camera, I don't care if no one else was watching!” Warren said, laughing. A few people began to emerge tentatively from the shelter of team buses, picking their way through the puddles towards the two of them. “What a day!” 

“That storm was something else,” Romain said, sitting down and leaning back against the fence. “Hi, yes, he won the stage,” he said to the first camera crew, pointing them at Warren. As Warren began to give an excited and highly incoherent interview, Romain yawned, suddenly exhausted. Someone would doubtless be over soon to make him warm down and drink recovery drinks, go through doping control and have a massage, but he was so tired he could've fallen asleep where he sat, despite the wet and icy ground. 

He'd been riding the wave of yesterday's win all day, but finally all the racing was over, and he could relax. All he had to do was roll into Paris tomorrow, and then they could go home. Romain yawned again, and let his eyes rest contentedly on Warren, who was zooming his hands about as he demonstrated the two of them escaping down the long descent. 

Romain didn't exactly mean to let his eyes fall shut, but he was startled back into awareness when he realised that Warren's excited chatter had broken off. He opened one eye, and Warren was standing as tensely as though he were waiting for a flag to drop. A wave of silence was flowing out across the mountaintop, and as one by one each conversation died away, Romain suddenly realised he could hear someone counting over the PA. 

“What – ” he began, but Warren hushed him immediately. He hauled Romain to his feet, and Romain blinked at him, half asleep and baffled. 

“Twenty,” the PA said. “Nineteen. Eighteen.” 

“No, but what – ” Romain said, yawning, and Warren gave him a shake, his eyes wild but intensely focused. 

“Fifteen. Fourteen.” 

Romain could feel Warren trembling, and he squeezed his hand, trying to offer comfort even though he didn't have the faintest idea what was going on. Warren started, as though he'd only just noticed Romain was there, and then began pushing his way through the journalists, dragging Romain behind him. 

“Ten, nine.” 

Warren broke into a run, pulling Romain along, until he was standing by the finish line. 

“Eight, seven, six.” 

Romain was cold, and somehow Warren's trembling seemed to have transferred itself to him. He stared down the road, holding Warren's hand, and all that was visible were the distant clouds. 

“Five,” the PA said, and whoever's voice it was sounded as though they were shaking too. “Four. Three. Two. _One_ – ” And with that the silence was swept away, as seemingly everyone on top of the mountain started shouting at once. 

“What?” Romain said, or tried to, but his voice wouldn't come out quite right. Warren was saying something, jumping up and down and shaking him, but all the words blurred together, and Romain couldn't understand him. “What – ” 

“Here,” Warren said, and practically shoved Romain into Christian Prudhomme’s arms. “Tell him! _Tell him_ – ” 

“Three minutes, fifty seconds!” Prudhomme said, looking almost as delighted as Warren. 

That number rang a distant bell somewhere. And as Romain stared at Prudhomme, the pieces slowly began to connect themselves. “ _What_ – ” he said, his knees suddenly going all wobbly. “No – I – the stage – I wasn't – I _can't have_ – ” 

“You _have_!” Warren yelled in his ear. “You have! They're still not here and you _have_ – ” 

Romain's gaze drifted back across to the finish line. And as he watched, he saw Nibali appear, sprinting desperately, his eyes fixing on the finish line clock before his head dropped in defeat. And then it sunk in, and his knees really did give up, and Romain sat down abruptly and burst into tears. 

He'd won the Tour de France. 

_


	12. Stage 21 Part 1: in which fame catches up with Romain, and Sagan becomes an agony aunt

(Sunday 19th July 2020) 

Romain lay suspended, hovering somewhere between reality and the world of dreams. Usually he was jolted awake by his alarm clock, but today it felt like he was drifting slowly upwards out from deep waters. Still in that state of quiet calm that belonged on the path to sleep, he was aware that something important waited for him, but he was in no hurry to open his eyes. 

But as he approached closer to wakefulness, like a flash of lightning he suddenly remembered the previous day's events, and it seemed to him that it _must_ be a dream, and it hurt because he wanted so badly for it to be true. Yet at heart Romain was a realist, and as much as he wanted to live in the world of dreams, he knew he couldn't do that. So with a deep sigh he opened his eyes... and lying on the chair was a yellow jersey, _his_ yellow jersey, and it was true: all of it was true, and everything he'd ever wanted. 

With a whoop of joy he leaped out of bed, only to have a box of tissues slung at him by Mathias, who grumbled something incomprehensible and rolled over firmly. Romain looked at his phone, and couldn't help but grin ruefully when he realised just how early it was. He was, however, far too excited to go back to sleep. So as quietly as possible he gathered his things and went into the bathroom to get dressed. 

It was much too soon to go to breakfast. The ride into Paris was starting late in the day, and Romain wasn't about to mess up his nutrition just because he'd got up at the crack of dawn. But since he was awake, there was something important he needed to do. Things had changed since his initial decision to upend his career, when he'd still been unaware of just how close he was to actually fulfilling his potential. He'd finally proven he could deliver, and maybe he was was a fit choice to lead AG2R after all. But he couldn't ring Arkéa's DS from the hotel room without his roommate trying to murder him, so he figured the best thing to do would be to go downstairs and get a coffee while he made his call. 

When he got down to the lounge, it was empty except for a couple of riders from Trek and Bora, who were sharing the hotel with AG2R. Romain nodded to them, and once he'd acquired coffee he went to sit near the window. His phone actually crashed trying to download all his messages, and while he was waiting for it to reboot he suddenly felt like he was being watched. He looked up, and to his dawning amazement he realised that there was a huge crowd of fans outside, gazing raptly in at _him_. 

He'd not exactly been an unknown for a long time, and Romain was used to being recognised, even off the bike. Yet he'd never been beloved in quite the way that, say, Warren was. Whilst Warren's warm, open-hearted manner endeared him to everyone, Romain knew all too well that he came across as too cold and calculated to inspire anyone's devotion. Well, apart from Warren's, and Romain had long since learned to accept what the two of them had as a gift that passed all understanding. 

But when he looked up, a ripple of delight shuddered through the crowd. Romain didn't mean to let it go to his head, but it was impossible to resist. He'd had three weeks of hell; surely he deserved a bit of appreciation? After all, he was the first French winner of the Tour in 35 years, and he'd fulfilled the promise his entire generation had been striving towards. Abandoning his coffee, he went out to make their day. 

The surging crowd began clamouring for autographs and selfies, pushing and jostling to get closer. There were so many of them, and it was intoxicating to be so wanted, after three weeks of feeling that even at best he was an embarrassment to the team. And yet just as Romain enjoyed a glass of wine without in the slightest enjoying being drunk, there suddenly came a point when it was too much. The people had just kept on coming, and they'd all been so excited, so thrilled, so desperate to touch him. Romain's delight had gone out like a candle flame, and he'd tried to struggle his way back towards the hotel, but the people had just _kept on coming._

Over the years he'd become accustomed to the idea that his body was public property. There wasn't a single part of him which wasn't regularly touched or adjusted by someone, whether soigneur or mechanic. It was part of the sport, as were the hugs and handshakes of congratulation or commiseration, and yet they'd never come automatically to Romain. He'd accepted the necessity, but he wasn't naturally a particularly touchy-feely person. 

It had even taken him some time to accustom himself to Warren's demonstrative ways. Warren wore his heart on his sleeve, and he always had open arms. And though Romain was still sometimes startled when Warren came over for a hug, or just to take his hand, his touch was never unwelcome. All too often Romain got lost in his own head, and yet Warren was always there to ground him and bring him back to what mattered. 

But it was one thing from the people close to him, fellow riders, and team staff he'd grown to trust. It was quite another to have a group of strangers yearning to touch him as though he were a holy relic. As proud as he was of his achievement, after all the years in which he'd strived and sweated and hurt and bled and got up again after every setback, Romain had only won a bike race. It wasn't even as though he were the first French winner ever. 1985 _was_ a long time ago, but the sheer reverence being displayed made Romain profoundly uncomfortable. 

It was absurd to feel cut off when he was no more than 10m away from the hotel's front door, but Romain was nonetheless still trapped. He felt as ridiculous as if he were drowning in a bucket of water, yet a few centimetres was all it needed, and he was as out of his depth as though he were in the middle of the ocean. 

His unease had begun blossoming into full-fledged panic when suddenly the tide of people turned, flowing away from him. He didn't question why, just pushed his way desperately through them and back to the safety of the hotel. Once he'd shut the door behind him he sagged against it, a chastened and wiser man. 

“You alright?” said Brambilla, who was still sat with the Bora and Trek group in the lounge Romain had left what felt like a thousand years before. Impossibly, his coffee cup was still where he'd set it down on the table by the window. “You, uh, don't look so good.” 

“Y-yeah,” Romain said, opening his eyes quickly and standing up straight. “I just – I didn't know it would be like that – ” 

“We figured,” Jay McCarthy said. “You looked a bit like something in the lions' den at feeding time.” 

“I didn't know it would be like _that_ ,” Romain repeated, running a shaking hand through his hair. “And then they – they all – ” 

“When you hadn't come back in after an hour, Gianluca persuaded us you probably needed a rescuer,” said Daniel Oss, nodding meaningly at the crowd outside. “So we sent Peto out to distract them.” 

“Thanks,” Romain said automatically. “Wait, that's Sagan? He gets that _all the time_? How does he – an _hour_?!” 

“More like an hour and a half, I guess,” McCarthy said, glancing at his phone. “I guess they've been waiting for a home win for a long time. But – ” 

“I'm meant to be at _breakfast_ ,” Romain said in dawning dismay. “And no one knows where I – I need to – thank you, all of you, and please tell Sagan I – _thanks_ – ” 

“There he is!” Pierre shouted as he hurried into the dining room, a great shout of joy going up from the entire rest of the team. “Get over here, our champ!” And suddenly Romain couldn't face him, couldn't face any of them. 

“I – I just need to... I forgot to... shower,” Romain said, clutching at the first excuse which came to mind. “I'll be – I'll just go – back up – ” 

“Nerves,” he heard Alexis say wisely as he fled towards the stairs, and under normal circumstances Romain would have been highly insulted. But Alexis was right, and he desperately needed to compose himself before he could face any more congratulation. As soon as the door swung shut and he was safely alone, he sat down on the chilly steps, burying his face in his hands. 

He was still sitting there when Sagan came through the door, shutting it behind him with a firm click. 

“Ha, I win,” he said. “Elevators are for the weak.” 

“Um,” Romain said, startled out of his misery. “I... guess?” 

“No cardio in an elevator,” Sagan said cheerfully, sitting down next to Romain. “You don't like the crowds so much, hmm?” 

“I – I – ” Romain said, lost for words. 

“Only me here,” Sagan said, crossing his legs like he was about to start meditating. “Get it off your chest.” 

“I thought I wanted to win the Tour,” Romain said, with a sigh that went down to his toes. “I've been working towards this my _entire life_. But I don't like – I didn't – I'm not – I _can't_ – ” 

“I'll tell you a secret,” Sagan said, and leaned in. “ _Nobody_ can. You're not the answer to all their prayers. You don't have to be.” 

“I know,” Romain said, and flushed. “I'm not trying to make myself out to – I don't _want_ – of course I'm pleased, but I don't know how to – ” 

“You didn't even get over the finish line yet and already you stopped enjoying it,” Sagan said, but not unkindly. “Fame isn't a bike race. There aren't any rules.” 

“But – ” Romain began. 

“Maybe they make you go to a press conference, but they don't make you talk sense,” Sagan said, and winked. “Maybe they make you do pictures, but you make faces at them till they go very soon.” 

“Oh,” Romain said, and considered that. “It's only a _bike race_?” he said desperately. “I don't think – why did they all want to _touch me_?” 

“Who knows why people do anything?” Sagan said unhelpfully. “So you don't like that, so you set the rules. You don't go wandering off into a big crowd, you go sign autographs over the fence. Maybe you do photos before the race. Then you switch off all your worrying and be happy again.” 

“But what if they start showing up at my house?” Romain said. He hadn't meant to voice his deepest fear, but there was something about Sagan's slightly alarming candour that made it slip out before he even realised. “What if this is what I always wanted, and now I've got it, it turns out to be awful, and I wasted all that time and ruined everything?” 

“Then you go do something else,” Sagan said, unfazed. “I always say, when it stops being fun, I'm going to stop. And people don't believe that maybe, but I know better. But you're worrying too much. If people don't come to _my_ house, they won't come to yours. And you live on an island, right?” 

“Well,” Romain said, and felt a bit silly. It was of course _possible_ that people might turn up in boats, but the safe channel wasn't exactly easy to navigate unless one knew exactly what they were doing. And they hadn't had any unexpected visits after Warren had won the French championships, from either fans or journalists. “So... this is a secret, but I'd started negotiating to move teams,” he said, suddenly feeling that perhaps Sagan might understand. “I mean, before I knew this would happen. Because this was a – it was such an _accident_. I didn't deserve to – ” 

“You know better than that,” Sagan said, elbowing him lightly. “First across the line wins. No one wins a race without being lucky, eh?” 

“I suppose,” Romain conceded. “But – ” 

“You think Nibali sits at home crying because he only won the Tour after Froome crashed out? 2017, they sent me home, remember? And Matthews got the jersey. So I know and he knows that was only because I wasn't there, but I wasn't, so it's his. What's it they say about the lottery? You've got to be in it to win it. You know what the rules are to decide who wins. What do you think everyone else did when the hail came down?” 

“Well, I... don't know?” Romain admitted. Since crossing the finish line the day before he'd been plunged into such a whirlwind of activity he'd barely had time to catch his breath, let alone find out what had happened in the race behind him. 

“In the gruppetto, we got off and ran into some guy's garage,” Sagan said, and grinned. “You should've seen his eyes pop out when he came to find out who it was. Then we waited for it to stop and we all had to ride like fury to beat the time cut. But _you_ – ” 

“But I wasn't thinking about the GC!” Romain protested. “I just wanted Warren to get a stage win!” 

“So what?” Sagan said, unfolding his legs and standing up. “You think you're the first guy who won a race by accident? But you _did win_ – or you will so long as you cross the line tonight still upright. So you be firm with your new team, you tell them what publicity you won't do – you think they'll argue? I bet they aren't paying you as a Grand Tour winner!” 

“I... _thanks_ ,” Romain said, letting Sagan pulling him to his feet. “And for earlier too. How do you _cope_ with that all the time?” 

“I know what I'm doing,” Sagan said, giving him a wink. “Don't go wandering off the path in the deep dark woods all by yourself, unless you know it's you that the wolves are afraid of. You stick to signing autographs over a fence – and tell your new team up front what you will and won't do. Better for you and them to be clear from the start, than wait and they argue about it later!”

And with that he jogged off up the stairs. 


	13. Stage 21 Part 2: in which Romain makes his choice, then reboots his day, and Warren queries the terms and conditions

Romain followed at a slower pace, everything Sagan had said running through his mind. When he got back to his hotel room he splashed some water on his face for plausible deniability, then drifted over to the balcony. He spent a long time staring out at Paris, not really seeing the bustling crowds on the street below, before a decision coalesced in his mind, and he knew it was the right one. And with that, he made a very different phone call from the one he'd had in mind that morning. 

“Hi,” his future DS said, and Romain could hear the faint undertone of regret beneath the smile in his voice. “Congratulations! I expect you've been doing a lot of thinking about next year. I know we haven't signed anything yet, but – ” 

“No,” Romain said before he could get any further. “I mean, yes, I _have_ been doing a lot of thinking, and – please, let me come to Arkéa on August 1st.” 

“Well, if you're still interested – ” his future DS said, sounding more than a little surprised. 

“I don't want to be a superstar,” Romain admitted with a sigh. “I'm no Sagan. That isn't the right path for me. I want to get back to _racing_ , not sitting in a team line for days, with everybody hyping me up while at the same time they're just waiting for me to screw up. I'll work for Quintana and Bouhanni, I'll work for Warren, and I'll see the sports psychologist, but I don't want to sign as a GC contender. I want to do one day races and classics and all the rest where _no one_ has any idea how I'll go, me included. But I want to find out, and – and I... I don't want to ride the Tour next year.” 

“When we talked about this before, I told you that we might not even be asked to the Tour,” his future DS said. “That won't be true any more. As defending champion – ” 

“ _No_ ,” Romain said, and he could feel his earlier panic bubbling up again. But he squashed it down, reminding himself of what Sagan had said, and tried to put some firmness into his voice. “No, I don't want to. What happened yesterday was a miracle, and I can't defend that next year. _No one_ could, except maybe Ineos I guess. But I'm not them, and you know and I know that I'll never be able to do this again, and I can't walk around for a whole year carrying the weight of _everyone just waiting for me to fail_ and – ” 

“Okay, okay,” his DS said. “Deep breaths. There's the entire rest of this year to go before we have to make a decision about your next season's goals. I think you should give the team a chance, and we need to see how you fit in, and try some of these new things to find out what your form is like. And I definitely think you'll benefit from working with our sports psychologist. I meant what I said about mental health being as important here as physical health. Unhappy athletes can't give their best performances. If you really still don't want to ride the Tour next year, I promise we won't force you to. However, if we're invited we will send a team, even if you aren't part of it.” 

“So long as I don't have to ride round with number 1 on my back I don't care,” Romain said, with a rush of relief so strong he felt giddy. “Anyone else can do it. I don't even mind riding it to work for one of the others and maybe go for stage wins!” 

“We'll talk about this some more after August 1st,” his DS said. “For now though, you need to complete the job for AG2R, and I'm sure I'm keeping you from preparing for today's stage. Ride safely, and congratulations from all of us at Arkéa. Warren hasn't stopped talking about how proud he is of you since yesterday.” 

“It's only thanks to him I'm in this position at all,” Romain said. “If I didn't have Warren, I – I don't know how I'd do _anything_ – ” 

“Then thank him in your speech, but make sure you don't say anything which will breach the transfer rules,” his DS said, and laughed. “But try and enjoy today as much as you can. You can keep in mind that it's a one-off experience, and you've already got your next move planned out, so that should help keep it from getting all too overwhelming. But go on, off you go, or AG2R will think you've abandoned them.” 

Romain splashed some more water on his face, and as he walked downstairs it occurred to him that he _still_ hadn't got as far as having breakfast. He had to laugh, because it felt as though he'd lived several months since he’d got up, and the day had really only just begun. The dining room had emptied, and at the AG2R table there was only an apologetic-looking Pierre. 

“Too much, earlier?” he said, as Romain sat down with his omelette and rice. 

“Little bit, yeah,” Romain admitted. “But I'm fine. It's just a bike race. All I have to do is ride in in one piece and then we're done.” 

“You are supposed to be a _bit_ pleased that you've won,” Pierre said. “We don't have to go wild if you don't want to, but we're not going to a funeral.” 

“I _am_ ,” Romain protested. “Of course I am. I just – it's up to me how I want to celebrate. And I don't want to go and – and stand in a crowd while people _touch me_.” 

“Okay,” Pierre said, giving him an sideways glance. “Well, we won't do that. Absolutely no crowd-touching. But – this must be what Ineos feel like _every year_!” 

“I'm glad to go out on a high,” Romain said slowly, pushing pieces of his omelette round his plate. “But... you know that if I hadn't – if I hadn't finished where I did, you'd be on the podium – ” 

“You're not worrying about _that_ , are you?” Pierre said, starting to laugh. “Honestly, it's always something with you. Just enjoy it, okay! If you hadn't gone off the front, if it hadn't hailed, if Froome hadn't ridden to save his place and towed us all along, if you'd stopped and taken shelter, if I _hadn't_ – of course I _might_ have ended up on the podium, but I might not have. Who knows! And fourth is a _great_ result for me. I'm not going to let the perfect become the enemy of the good, and neither are you. You. Won. The. Tour.” 

“I did,” Romain said, as the last weight on his heart finally lifted. It wasn't the lightning-bolt euphoria of earlier, but more like sunshine warming him from head to toe. “ _I_ won the Tour!” 

“That's more like it!” Pierre said encouragingly. “See if you can keep that up. This is meant to be a celebration for everyone! Even if the weather was really more help than the rest of us were. And don't faint on the podium or anything,” he added with a truly depressing lack of faith in Romain's mental fortitude. “I mean, can you imagine? Ladies and gentlemen, our Tour winner, a victory for all of France, a – oh no, he's just passed out in a heap. How about we get his fantastic teammate, who came in an _excellent_ fourth place, to say a few words instead – ” 

“I'm not going to _faint_ ,” Romain said, thumping Pierre in the shoulder. And with that return to normality he suddenly realised that he was starving, and applied himself diligently to his breakfast. 

By the time he made it onto the team bus, the message had obviously been passed around that although he'd calmed down a bit, there wasn't to be too extreme a celebration. There were plenty of pats on the back when his teammates saw him in his yellow jersey, but nothing more overt. Normally Romain would have been heartily annoyed – he was lean and light because he was a climber, but that didn't make him _fragile_ , either physically or emotionally – but he was feeling so overwhelmed at actually wearing yellow that if anyone had hugged him he was quite sure he'd have burst into tears. 

With that embarrassing eventuality thankfully averted, he retreated to his usual chair, gaze wandering round the bus. Everything was the same as it always was, and yet because it was the last time Romain would ever sit there he couldn't help but see everything through fresh eyes. 

Surrounded by the cheerful banter of his soon to be ex-teammates, memories of all the time he'd spent sitting in that very seat flooded into his mind. Perhaps there had been more lows than highs, but on the whole AG2R had treated Romain well, and formed him into the man he'd become. He didn't regret his decision to leave – he knew he had nothing more to offer the team, but perhaps there was also nothing more that they could do for him – but it added another layer to his unexpected victory, on top of the emotional release that always came with riding into Paris. 

Eventually they drove off, and he put his headphones on and got his phone out. But before Romain could decide what to listen to he fell back into reminiscing, and shortly afterwards was so soundly asleep that he didn't wake up until the bus came to a halt. 

An impromptu nap certainly wasn't the start he'd imagined to the most significant day yet of his career. But once he'd shaken off the fuzzy-headedness of waking up from a sleep he'd never meant to take, Romain realised that he actually felt much better for it. His first attempt at the day had definitely gone off the rails, but he'd been given a second opportunity to do things right. And this time he'd follow Sagan's advice, and leave the wandering off into crowds for those who enjoyed it. 

He still wasn't quite prepared for the roar that went up as he took his place on the start line. The sheer volume of sound was almost overwhelming, but Romain took a couple of deep breaths and reminded himself that he got to decide the terms on which he interacted with people. He didn't venture close enough to the barriers for anyone to grab at him, but he signed autographs, trying to focus on giving them to the kids in the crowd. 

It was a little weird that a copy of his signature was something anyone could set any value on, but it wasn't nearly as strange as all the people shouting his name as they rolled through the neutralised section. Romain wasn't really sure what, if anything, he was supposed to reply, so he settled on a slightly dazed grin and a wave. Half the crowd were wearing yellow, and he still couldn't quite really accept that all the celebration was for _him_. 

What really moved him, though, were the flags. Blue, white and red were everywhere, and Romain still knew perfectly well that his victory was nothing more than a happy accident. But that he had somehow brought such joy to his country touched him more than he could express. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, and he was almost glad when the photographers descended on him, as it gave him something to concentrate on. 

The ride into Paris passed into a blur, as he was asked to pose for one photo after another. With his former DS, with the team car, with the rest of the team. With the other jersey wearers, with Pierre, by himself. Soon enough Romain's head was spinning, although he'd only sipped at his champagne, trying not to look as though he could taste that it was whatever cheap stuff his former DS had hastily obtained the night before. He was surrounded by photographers, and he began to long for someone else to distract them. 

As he looked around, he could see he'd been cut off from the rest of the peloton by the sheer number of camera bikes, but his heart lifted when he saw Warren making his way through their ranks. It was slow going, as they massed so much more than he did, but he was more nimble, and could slip through the gaps they left between themselves. They didn't react, even when he was clearly drafting behind them. Today, none of that mattered until they hit the Champs-Élysées. 

At last Warren made his way to Romain's side, and promptly threw his arms round him. Romain might well have fallen off, but he was so used to Warren doing that sort of thing that he'd braced both himself and his bike in time. 

“I am _so proud_ of you!” Warren said, as he drank in the sight of Romain in his yellow jersey. “Oh brave heart, _look_ at you – ” 

“Not in front of the TV cameras,” Romain said awkwardly, well aware that the video footage was going out to most of the world. 

“I don't care,” Warren said, turning round and giving the cameras a grin and a wink. “I don't care if the entire _planet_ knows how – ” 

“Well, I do,” Romain said, turning hastily to the nearest TV crew. “Do you think we could have a bit of privacy for few minutes, please?” 

The camera crew looked as though they'd have much preferred to say no, but that wouldn't have gone down so well on live TV, so they reluctantly dropped back 50m. They were bound to continue filming, but whatever Warren had to say concerned only the two of them, and they were at least out of earshot. Warren was almost more thrilled by his victory than Romain was, and he certainly seemed to have wrapped his head around it better. 

“But you've been struggling for so long,” Warren said. He was contentedly holding Romain's hand, and showed no sign of ever wanting to let go. “And there wasn't _anything_ I could do to help you, because you weren't ready. But you are now, and you know the biggest hurdles were always up _here_ all along, and now – ” 

“And now I've got Arkéa to look forward to,” Romain said, and laughed for sheer joy. “No one's quite going to believe it, are they? I bet everyone'll be speechless when _that_ comes out.” 

“You haven't told anyone else yet?” Warren said. His hand was warm in Romain's, and for a moment out of time Romain wouldn't have minded if they’d never reached Paris at all, he was so happy. 

“Well, Pierre, and my old DS – and then the rest of the team. And my parents, of course, and they told yours. Oh, and Sagan.” 

“Sagan?” Warren said. “When did you two get chance to hang out?” 

“He was giving me good advice in a stairwell,” Romain said, squeezing Warren's hand. “I'll tell you all about it later. Has anyone given you any champagne? It isn't _great_ , but it's the thought that counts. Apparently last night they were driving round supermarkets till 2am trying to find some. If we go back to the car, I'll ask – ” 

“No need,” Warren said, and grinned. “I already got some from your DS.” 

“Oh really?” Romain said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I told him I was as essential a contributor to your success as he was,” Warren said earnestly. “So the least he could do was share the spoils with me.” 

“And that worked?” Romain said incredulously. 

“Believe it or not, your team are pretty pleased with you right now,” Warren said, and laughed. “Okay, so you might be leaving, but talk about going out on a high! And you and them get to share that – it'll always be _your_ win, but it'll stay as a win for AG2R too. So tell me about your new contract, anyway – you're moving August 1st, right?” 

Romain began describing the provisional terms of his contract, and the plan he'd agreed with his DS. He felt pretty pleased with the prospect, but Warren was soon shaking his head. 

“You won't be earning any more than I do?” he said sceptically. 

“Look, I know they won't be paying me as a Grand Tour winner,” Romain said hastily. “But I _wasn't_ , at the time we agreed – and it wouldn't be fair anyway, as we both know this is nothing more than an accident. And I'm not signing as a GC contender _anyway_ , so they shouldn't be paying me as one, and – we'll make it work, won't we?” 

“That wasn't what I meant,” Warren said. “Of course we will, especially if one of us stops ‘investing’ in overpriced wine, but that's a terrible deal! You can sign up to do nothing but drag Nacer into sprints if you want, and rather you than me, but – ” 

“Oh good,” Romain said, before he could help himself. “Because you know I worry about you doing lead-outs? There's one of us keeps shattering his skeleton into pieces, and it isn't me.” 

“That's as maybe,” Warren said, refusing to be diverted. “But you _are_ a two-time podium finisher at a Grand Tour, even without counting this year, and they ought to be paying you as such. What on earth did they offer as well, that your agent told you to accept that?” 

“My what?” Romain said. 

Warren blinked at him. “Your agent,” he said, in a slow, ominous tone. “Your rider's agent. The person doing the negotiating for you, because _you_ of _all_ people are absolutely _guaranteed_ to undersell your own worth, and yes, Arkéa's a good team, but they're a business, not saints. Please tell me you didn't – ” 

“Um,” Romain said guiltily. “I didn't _know_? No one told me I was supposed to have one!” 

“You didn't _know_?!” Warren said. 

“I've never changed teams before, and no one told me!” Romain protested. “And before you say I should've asked you, well, I couldn't, as we were in the middle of a race. And I didn't know I was _supposed_ to ask, so yes, I could've asked a teammate, but I didn't. And it isn't _that_ bad a deal!” 

“What did they offer you that sold the deal?” Warren said, still in that ominous tone. 

“Well, they – they said we could room together if we're at the same race?” Romain said sheepishly, and Warren's expression softened. 

“And you say _I'm_ the emotional one!” he said, starting to laugh. “You ought to have known, because you remember when I moved from Sunweb? My uncle was handling the negotiations on my end, remember?” 

“Oh yeah,” Romain said guiltily. “Look, I promise next time – well, there isn't going to _be_ a next time. I hope. But if there is, he can negotiate for me.” 

“Never say never,” Warren said, still laughing. “I didn't think I'd leave Sunweb, but – well, that's all in the past now. Live and learn, as they say. So did I tell you we've had a bunch of messages from the guys, and they’ll all be there today? Your phone doesn’t seem to be connected to the group chat any more.” 

“I have had literally a billion messages,” Romain said. “ _Literally_. My phone crashed earlier trying to load Twitter. But shouldn't they all be at work?” 

“Are you kidding me?” Warren said. “Absolutely everything in the village is shut down today, so everyone could come and celebrate. This is a win for all of us! And afterwards, there is going to be a party like you wouldn't _believe_. So you’d better not get any ideas about fainting on the podium.” 

“Why does everyone think I’m going to faint?” Romain demanded. “That’s what Pierre said to me earlier too!” 

“You’d better not, or there’ll be no party for you,” Warren said solemnly. “It’ll be early bedtime and a cup of hot cocoa and absolutely no overexcitement whatsoever, so if you want to avoid _that_ dreadful fate, stay conscious while you’re doing your speech. You have written it out, right?” 

“Well,” Romain said. “I mean, I didn’t know I’d be giving one until yesterday, and since then I haven’t had five minutes peace, and, um – ” 

“What would you do without me!” Warren said, and fished a sheet of paper out of his jersey pocket. “Here you go, I made you some notes. Just keep it simple, and you’ll be fine. And for heaven’s sake don’t start telling that joke about the coffee ride where you always forget the punchline! You know how proud I am of you, right? Not for winning, although that’s a bonus, but for how hard you’ve worked up _here_.” 

“I’ve had help,” Romain said, and thought of all the people who’d helped him over the last three weeks. “A _lot_ of help. Thanks – you haven’t got a pencil, have you?” 

“No of course I haven’t,” Warren said, and started to laugh. “Nor a pen. Back to the team car, I guess, and you can add people as you remember.” 

The team car supplied a pen, and Romain began adding to the list of people he wanted to thank. Watching him scribble on a piece of paper wasn’t particularly interesting for the TV cameras, and they mostly left him in peace to think. By the time he’d got down everyone that Warren couldn’t possibly have known about they’d wound their way right into Paris, and as the pace picked up he had to rejoin the rest of the team and think about racing again. 


	14. Stage 21 Part 3: Champs-Élysées

Coming onto the Champs-Élysées was always an enjoyable moment, as regardless of whether the Tour had gone well or badly, the supreme effort of three weeks’ racing was reaching its close. In 2016 and 2017 Romain had been excited and proud, ready to take his place on the podium, whereas for the last two years all he’d felt was a nagging disappointment that he’d let everyone down. But as he swung round onto the wide road, in his yellow jersey at the very front of the long line of riders, the noise of the crowd crescendoed like nothing he’d ever heard before. 

As they ceremonially processed round the first lap Romain felt almost light-headed, it was so overwhelming. He couldn’t look at the banners in the crowd, or at the podium, and in the end he had to remind himself firmly that if he fainted at any point, both Warren and Pierre would never let him live it down. That helped a little, but the whole thing was just so much _more_ than anything he’d ever experienced in his racing career. He’d never even worn a leader’s jersey at WT level before, and it was probably for the best that the pace began to accelerate before he could do anything so embarrassing as to start crying. 

Once the first lap was completed, the sprinters’ teams came to the front. For a wild moment Romain was tempted to try to get in the breakaway, but he had to laugh breathlessly when he remembered that he was hardly inconspicuous in yellow. Five or six riders slipped off the front, and swiftly built a lead of 20s. But as they completed the next few laps the gap was firmly pegged at that point and allowed to grow no larger, although the composition of the breakaway changed several times. 

Small groups of chasers kept going off the front trying to join it, as others dropped back, and whilst Romain couldn’t identify most of them, he noticed De Marchi in his polka dots. Someone in Mitchelton-Scott kit got a puncture, and was standing glumly by the side of the road as Romain and the rest of the peloton swept past. 

And then suddenly Romain was afraid. The victory was only his if he crossed the line still upright, and the remaining laps seemed to stretch out in front of him like an endless expanse he still had to cross. It was all too easy to imagine himself crashing, the crunch as his collarbone shattered, and the joyful roar of the crowd faltering and falling away as the victory went to Nibali, Romain having let down his team and his country once again. 

They plunged into the tunnel, the noise of the crowd falling away behind, and for a moment it felt like he was caught out of time again, suspended in an endless agonising moment where he was within touching distance of the victory, and knowing he would never able to grasp it. 

But as they burst out into the golden evening light his nerves faded and were gone. Romain was still keyed up, where normally he’d relax quietly in the wheels out of the way while the sprinters did their thing, but he wasn’t afraid any more. He was at home, wearing the leader’s jersey in his own country’s race, and if he fell off then the crowd themselves would get him across the finish line. 

That didn’t mean he couldn’t take a few precautions, though. The pace was far too high for him to move up, but he radioed ahead to Nans at the front of the team line, and they began shifting from the middle of the pack towards the centre of the road, away from the kerb. It meant they had a bumpier ride, but Romain was concerned with ensuring they had room to manoeuvre, not with maintaining their position in the final sprint. 

For the next couple of laps all went well, although he had to fight down a wave of emotion each time they crossed the finish line. But one by one by one the laps ticked down, and although the composition of the breakaway churned over, their lead remained at 20s. As they swung onto the last lap and the bell rang out, Romain took as deep a breath as he could manage and tried to fix the moment in his mind. Everything was so _much_ that it was almost an out of body experience, and yet the adrenaline was still keeping him hyper-focused on anything that could keep him from getting over the line. 

When the crash did come, it was so close at hand that only his heightened reflexes saved him. An Astana rider in front of Nibali plummeted to the ground, and a wave of chaos ripped through the peloton. Romain instantly yanked his handlebars hard to the left, the image of Moscon and the dog flashing irrelevantly through his mind as his heart rate skyrocketed. He made it by mere centimetres, bunnyhopping onto the pavement to avoid Pierre’s sliding back wheel, and then back onto the road again before he could hit any spectators. 

Romain glanced back over his shoulder, and to his horror he was one of the few riders still upright. He couldn’t see anyone lying on the ground, but the sheer number of tangled bikes and riders made it impossible to tell. And although the GC was neutralised, he could think of no experience more wretched than to roll to the finish line minutes behind the winners, with all the joy of reaching Paris snuffed out. It needed someone to take control of the race, but there was was no one to tell the small group of survivors to wait. 

When the answer dawned on him, he had no faith that it would actually work, but he had to try. “Slow down!” he said as urgently as he could manage to the EF guy in front. “We’re going to slow down and wait.” And to Romain’s amazement, he not only did, but passed the word in turn to whoever was in front of him. Romain turned and said the same thing to a pair of Sunweb riders, and the pace of the whole group eased down until they were dawdling along. One Quickstep rider accelerated off into the distance, but as far as Romain was concerned it had still worked better than he could possibly have expected. 

He’d never led a World Tour race before, and the fact that everyone had slowed down just because he’d said so, giving up any chance of the win because Romain wanted to wait for those who had crashed, humbled him down to the ground. One by one riders came up to join them, but Romain kept telling people no, that they weren’t going to go, not until Froome and Nibali at least were with them. He would’ve liked to insist that included Warren too, but whilst it was one thing to wait for the rest of the podium, his private feelings were no justification for holding up the race. 

From up ahead he could hear the roar of the crowd building to fever pitch, and knew that someone, presumably from the breakaway, was sprinting for the win. All of Romain’s instincts were screaming at him to just accelerate and get over the line, as his influence over the group faded, and one by one riders did just that. But he carried on riding at that slow, deliberate pace, and after what felt like an eternity what was left of the Ineos train finally made its way up to the dwindling group. 

“Thanks,” Froome said, rubbing at a bleeding elbow. “That was sportsmanlike.” 

“You’re welcome,” Romain said awkwardly, and wished he could see Warren. “Nibali – ” 

“Just coming up now,” Froome said, nodding over his shoulder. Nibali seemed unharmed, and he also nodded to Romain, taking up a position on his other side. 

“Over the line together, eh?” he said, and suddenly, suddenly, it was _real_. There was the finish line, and it wasn’t anything like how Romain had pictured it in his mind. As he’d crossed it over and over again in his imagination he’d been with the team, or hand in hand with Warren, and he hadn’t in a million years thought that the entire podium would roll in together far behind the stage winner. 

But flanked by Froome and Nibali he crossed the line, and if he’d thought there were a lot of TV crews earlier, they were nothing compared to the number that ran over to swarm him. He couldn’t see anything but cameras, and it didn’t matter what kind of stupid questions they were asking, there was one thing he needed answered before he could celebrate. 

Almost no sooner had he had thought that than an indignant mutter began to grow, before Warren shoved his way between the reluctantly parting camera crews. And as he threw his arms round Romain, holding him like they’d been parted for years, Romain couldn’t even find it in himself to tell Warren that maybe they ought to save it for in private. He was simply too happy. 

Everything was a blur for a while after that. At one point he was with his parents, and all three of them were crying for joy as they embraced. Later he finally caught sight of Mika, and then their friends from home, who’d managed to stake out a space by the podium. In between people congratulating him he managed to make some kind of comment to various tv crews, although he hadn’t the faintest idea of what he said. But eventually his former DS came and rescued him, and then Romain was hurried off to the team bus to shower. 

As he stood under the hot water Romain’s mind drifted away, all the things which had happened since he’d stood so miserably on the start line flowing into each other like a kaleidoscope turning. It wasn’t until a soigneur came to bang on the door that he was recalled out of his daze to the necessity of actually getting clean. 

Once he’d got dressed and done his hair, he was hustled down to wait behind the podium. His former DS stood talking with Prudhomme, whilst in the VIP area Warren was steering both sets of parents to front-row seats. Somehow he still had his bike with him, and Romain spared a minute to hope someone relieved him of it before he took out some local dignitary’s ankles. 

“Hard to believe it’s real, huh?” said a voice behind him, and Romain turned to see van Garderen. 

“Why are you here?” he said, too surprised to be more diplomatic. 

“Stage winner!” van Garderen said. “I’d have bet you a million dollars against! But something happened to the entire peloton, and there were only me and a couple of others in the break still gunning for it, and I’m not much of a sprinter, but hey, I had to have a go – and I got it on the line!” 

“There was a crash,” Romain said, grinning back at him. “And then I tried to make people wait – for Nibali and Froome, really, but I suppose that disrupted all the actual sprint trains.” 

“Thanks, man,” van Garderen said, clasping his hand warmly. “I haven’t forgotten about those TED talks! Soon as I get back home, once I’ve slept for a week – ” 

But at that point he was called to the podium, and Romain was left alone in the warm twilight. It occurred to him that it was the last time he’d ever wear AG2R kit, but before he could get too overcome he was shooed out of the way, so the entirety of Trek could assemble to collect the team prize. 

“Maybe you knew what you were doing carrying all that food after all!” Brambilla said, while his teammates milled around waiting for the announcers to call them to the podium. 

“Not really,” Romain said, laughing. “Everything just went – _right._ Somehow.” 

“It does that sometimes!” Skujiņš told him, and they all filed onto the podium. Mollema then took a second trip up to collect the combativity prize, patting Romain on the back on his way past. He was swiftly followed by Sagan, who gave Romain a fistbump while he waited for his name to be called. 

“You talk to your new team yet?” he said. 

“Yes, and I told them I didn’t want to do the Tour next year, and they were okay with that!” Romain said, still scarcely able to believe it. 

“You keep that up,” Sagan said, and winked at him. “Being honest upfront saves you a lot of tears. And don’t forget about the wolves in the dark woods!” 

As Sagan took his turn on the podium, De Marchi came over to wait, looking almost as emotional as Romain felt. 

“You deserved this,” Romain said, a huge cheer erupting behind them as Sagan was awarded his green jersey. 

“Yes I did, I never worked so hard in my life,” De Marchi said, and grinned. “But I got lucky too. And my wife and son are here to see me up there on top of the world! Your people are here?” 

“Yeah,” Romain said, a lump welling up in his throat as he looked over to the VIP area, and the people he cared about most in the world. His parents were sat in the front row, both looking completely overwhelmed, with Warren’s next to them. Warren was standing beside them, somehow still with his bike, and Romain could tell from the way he was zooming his hands about that he was recounting the previous day’s stage to them all. “They’re all here.” 

“Now, my turn!” De Marchi said, bounding up the podium steps. 

“Congratulations,” said a voice from behind Romain, and he turned to see Bernal. “It’s a good feeling.” 

“I don’t know _how_ I feel,” Romain said with a rueful chuckle. “I haven’t quite – got my head round it all.” 

“It will come,” Bernal said with an engaging smile, and Romain reflected again that he really was a nice kid. He couldn’t imagine the kind of pressure Bernal had been under to repeat his victory from the year before, and yet he still seemed to be genuinely happy just to be there and racing. Romain knew all too well that if he’d dropped 7 places on GC since the previous year, he’d have been too busy despising himself to genuinely congratulate any of his rivals, but there was nothing false about Bernal’s kindness. 

“Congratulations to you too,” he said. “I’m not doing the Tour next year – ” 

“Maybe my year again,” Bernal said, and grinned, and went up to the podium to collect his white jersey. 

And then at last it was Romain’s turn. 

He took a deep breath, and as he climbed the steps the noise of the crowd somehow got even louder. He managed to raise a hand and wave, but as he was given his yellow jersey the world blurred around him. But the thought of hot cocoa and early to bed flitted into his mind, and Romain wiped his eyes, and laughed, and steadied himself again. As he raised his trophy and stuffed lion the spotlights turned yellow, and fireworks began exploding somewhere behind him, and he’d never been happier in his life. 

After an endless moment he was ushered off, and down to where Froome and Nibali were waiting. 

“It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” Froome said politely, and Romain scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes and tried to look as though he hadn’t even been close to crying. 

“You’ve both done this before, haven’t you?” he said, as that realisation set in. 

“Never gets any less too much,” Nibali said, patting him on the back encouragingly, as the announcers began to call their names. 

“Hang on, I need to get rid of these first,” Romain said urgently, his hands still full of flowers and a cuddly toy. He didn’t want to hand them over to a stranger in case he never saw them again, but he was completely cut off from the VIP area by the TV crews surrounding them. 

Only then Warren was there, although thankfully someone had finally taken his bike away. Romain gratefully shoved his lion and flowers into Warren’s arms, and a wave of affectionate laughter went through the crowd around them. Romain had mostly meant, _here, hold these_ , but on the other hand who else would he give them to, if not to Warren? 

“Here we go,” Froome said, a hand on his shoulder, and then Romain was climbing the steps once again. One by one they stepped up, and there he was, on top of the world just as De Marchi had said. 

“This must be strange for you,” he said to Froome, suddenly conscious that he needed to do something at once to distract himself from the prickling at the back of his eyes. 

“I’ve not quite won _everything_ ,” Froome said with a smile. “But I’m thirty-five now. And whilst I’d hardly say I was done, I’ve been thinking that perhaps it’s time I began transitioning to more of a mentor role. There’s a lot I could teach some of the younger guys about leadership – ” 

“You need to talk to van Garderen!” Romain said with a sudden flash of inspiration. “He’s got these TED talks – ” 

And with that La Marseillaise began to play, and the crowd began to sing, and Romain completely lost it. He’d been trying so hard not to cry on the podium but this, this was beyond anything he could have imagined. It felt like his whole country was singing with him, _for_ him, and he couldn’t even mouth the words, just bury his face in his hands whilst his heart was stabbed with the sort of joy too deep to be expressed other than through tears. 

At last it came to an end, and Romain wiped his eyes and gulped and coughed and fumbled in his back pockets for his speech. He was handed a microphone, and gradually a vash hush spread out over the crowd. 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Romain said, and winced as his voice cracked. Telling himself firmly that he was absolutely definitely _not_ crying, he took as deep a breath as he could manage, and then another. “I didn’t expect this – I didn’t expect this _at all_. This is – this is a miracle – ” 

“I’d like to thank my team,” Nibali murmured from behind him. 

“I’d like to thank my team,” Romain said gratefully. “Pierre – Benoît – Nans – Alexis – Mathias – and Tony, I hope you’re watching at home, you’re part of this too! – and all the support staff – the masseurs, the nutritionists, the mechanics – my DS – ” 

“Breathe,” Froome said softly. 

“All the people who’ve helped me get through this,” Romain said, blinking the tears out of his eyes. “I’ve had a lot of help this race – and I’m grateful to everyone. De Gendt, thank you for teaching me about breakaways. Van Garderen, thank you for teaching me about leadership! Sagan, thank you for – well, you know what for. I’ll remember! Thank you to Jungels and De Marchi for their honesty, and thank you to Brambilla for keeping an eye out for me. Quintana – Nairo – thank you for... for _hope_ , when I didn’t expect it – ” 

Out of the corner of his eye Romain saw Nibali raise an eyebrow at that, and he hastily swallowed what he’d been just about to say before he breached the transfer rules. “Everyone who believed in me for all those years where I couldn’t deliver,” he said, and then he _had_ to stop and just breathe for a moment to fight down the lump in his throat. “And – and my family, my friends – you know who you are, you know how much I love you – ” 

“Almost there,” Nibali murmured. 

“And – and – _thank you_ ,” Romain said. “Everyone – for, for being here today, with me – this isn’t a win for me, this is a win for us, for all of us, for _France –_ ” 

The crowd began to applaud again, and whatever else he might have had to say, it was drowned out in the sheer wall of sound. So Romain dropped the microphone, because he’d always wanted to do that, and went to celebrate with the people he loved. 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to my bff for solving numerous plot issues, both great and small, and listening to me recount the ups and downs of a fictional bike race for months on end.


End file.
